


With Second Chances

by tupperbisque



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies), Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Comic), Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pacific Rim AU, Treachery, just to get this out of the way: Alek/Malak is dead bc reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29288763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tupperbisque/pseuds/tupperbisque
Summary: Again, the wind-up toy soldier, trained to kill on command. Celebrated when useful, discarded when not. She'd left to find herself, regain her agency and reclaim her life from those who sought to control it - but now?She slinks back to the Corps like the spineless schutta she is.+The KOTOR game- and comic-verse, but follows the plot of the 1st Pacific Rim film. Focus on relationships between major and minor characters.
Relationships: Atris/Female Jedi Exile, Mical | Disciple/Atton "Jaq" Rand, Revan/Bastila Shan, The Jedi Exile & Revan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	1. Duty Calls

**Author's Note:**

> bulk of this was written in 2018, but i kept stopping and starting and stopping because i kept getting new ideas on relationship dynamics and plot ideas to incorporate. so this went thru numerous edits and rewrites, just to ensure plot and lore coherence is there. this is by all means not perfect, but i hope you enjoy it as much as i did writing it. 
> 
> work is complete, worry not. just be publishing chapters every few days after some minor edits.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Fine. I’ll play the Corps’s game. I’ll fight your wars for you. But don’t even think for a second that I owe the Republic or the Corps my loyalty, because where were you when they shamed me for saving the galaxy? A Marshal can override the Council.”_

_This was my second chance_  
_To make it right again_  
_This was my second chance_  
_To take a stand_  
_This was my second chance_  
_To never look back_  
_This was my second chance_  
_To live again_

_\\\ with second chances - silverstein_

=

It keeps _karking_ happening like this.

She's supposed to be a nobody. Another survivor touched by the War, scrounging enough credits from odd jobs by day to fuel her drifting from cantina to cantina by night. 

Well, most don't. She does, simply to avoid being disturbed by vac-heads insistent that she needs company. Punching them away when they get aggressive usually works, but what can she expect from _sleemos_ intoxicated with jugloads of juma? 

So when she hears footsteps approaching over the noise of the cantina, she places her mug of caf on the bartop. Guesses at the species too - the other day, it was a Rodian. She glances up. Today- 

She knows that scruff. The slicked hair and a few strands springing free. A Marshal’s uniform is stiff on him - _kark_ , strutting around _Nar Shaddaa_ in formal? Why hasn't the Exchange gutted him in some grimy alley downtown, again?

With a side-eye, she _tsks_. “This look suits you, Carth. As much as deserts suit Selkath.” He looks better in pilot fatigues. “The Corps finally decided to execute me for treason?”

“Don’t talk like that, Venetia.” Carth sits on the stool beside her, waving away the barkeep. “Dishonorable discharge is the worst the Defense Corps will resort to.”

“What brings a Marshal to a dive bar on Nar Shaddaa, then? With the Exogorths back, there can only be one reason, right?” Venetia giggles as she swallows down her caf. Well, _spiked_ caf - with juma. There's only one reason why he's here and he can _kriff it_. “No.”

“They’re stronger. Someone or something caused it, and the Republic doesn’t have the means to repel the Exogorths. You’ve heard how the Seccers blow up Shatterdomes and kidnap Jaeger pilots; pilots that we’re in short supply of.”

“Didn’t the Corps strip me of my wings and the _Thunder Smash_ for _disobeying a direct order_ and _aiding and abetting in the death of a comrade_?”

“A Marshal can override the Council. Which I already have, given the circumstances.”

“I can’t pilot a Jaeger again.” Venetia grits her teeth. _Un-_ clenches her fists, already balling like rocks. Why can't he go away? “You know how I was still connected when Alek was ripped out-”

“So had Lennox. And now, they’re piloting Jaegers again. With a new copilot.”

“Oh yeah? Great for ‘em. Nothing to do with me.” 

Carth puckers up his face like he wants to scream, but he inhales a calming breath. His frustration disappears - and Venetia huffs. “I’ll be honest with you. I need Jaeger pilots, Ven, and you’re hell of a good one. The war’s coming. I’d just thought you’d wanted to spend it inside a Jaeger instead of running contraband for the Hutt Cartels.”

 _Then, it became slaves, and she refused._ “It paid well.” 

“It’s nothing compared to the damage you can do in a Jaeger.”

“Blab all you want, Marshal. I’m not returning to that life.” There's too much, _too many people_ she's disappointed. She can't just- _return_ , the way she left things. It's easier that she stay away.

“Ven. _Listen to me._ ” Carth grabs her arm and she wrests it out of his grasp. He leans to furiously whisper into her ear - why, she hasn't the faintest. Who in Corellia’s nine hells gives a shit about Jaeger pilots on this cesspool of a planet? “We need pilots. There is a _war_ on. Are you going to leave us like how you left Lennox then?”

“ _Fine._ ” It stabs deep enough that Venetia shoots to her feet and knocks over her barstool. In a cantina packed with sentients, it doesn’t turn heads - not even the barkeep’s. She’s glad. “I’ll play the Corps’s game. I’ll fight your wars for you. But don’t even _think_ for a second that I owe the Republic or the Corps my loyalty, because where were you when they shamed me for saving the galaxy? _A Marshal can override the Council._ ”

Carth ages in a blink, face creasing with sudden lines. “I was afraid you’d say that. Trust me when I say I wished I’d done it differently.”

“Save it,” Venetia grits out. Drains the last of her drink, and slams it on the counter. She doesn't want to unstitch old, festering wounds. “Just kriffing tell me what you want me to do.” 

Again, the wind-up toy soldier, trained to kill on command. Celebrated when useful, discarded when not. She'd left to find herself, regain her agency and reclaim her life from those who sought to control it - but now? 

She slinks back like the spineless _schutta_ she is. 

_But what I wouldn’t give to see your face again._

_If you're still there._

=

Carth gives her five hundred credits and five weeks to report to the Yavin Shatterdome.

(She has a few thousand stashed in shadow accounts all over the sector, handy when she'd been booted from her smuggling stint, but she’ll take as much Republic money they’re willing to splurge on her. Some for ship and weapons repairs, some to fill her belly, and the rest she funnels to redevelopment funds on Exogorth-ravaged worlds.)

“I trust you’ll be there,” he says, eyes as clear as day. “Meanwhile, I’ve pilots to recruit elsewhere.”

She has no reason to follow through on their agreement. Half of her wants to disappear with her savings to start afresh, maybe as a moisture farmer on Tatooine.

“Wait,” Venetia calls out just above the din, catching Carth’s attention. “Aren’t you returning my holotags?”

“Your old ones? I don’t have them.” Carth sees the clench in Venetia’s jaw, and realises she isn’t letting him off that easy. He dips his head, trying to recall anything important. “I think they went missing after your trial. Try asking around when you’re at Yavin? Someone’s bound to know something. Not sure why it matters - you’ll be given new tags upon arrival.”

 _Of course._ Why should the Corps bother about keeping her holotags safe? “Nice to know I matter.”

Hours later, she’s on the next freighter bound for Ossus. After Ossus, a short flight over to Yavin IV.

It’s from Ossus when things fall apart.

=

Venetia wakes aching from unknown bruises to a premium view of a Force cage. The _interior_ view. 

“ _Shavit_ ,” is the first word out of her, as she recalls how they’d been boarded over Rhen Var. “ _Karking_ hell!” is the second, realising that she remembers little save the explosion, gas grenades rolling into the cabin, and the resultant flurry of blaster bolts. 

_What happened?_

She punches against the cage in accident and hisses at the shock. 

“A poor choice of action.”

She looks to her right and sees someone else in an adjacent Force cage - but Venetia can’t look away from her gray fatigues, and the logo emblazoned on her arm. “Why do you care?”

“If you insist on shocking yourself into a stupor, the chances of us escaping this facility diminish by the second.” The hooded woman straightens, but remains sitting cross-legged on the bottom of the cage. There’s something about her that Venetia can’t place - she’s familiar, but how? “You are in a Seccer facility, and they will interrogate you soon enough. You will not survive it. This is our only chance to escape with favourable odds.”

 _Seccer_. Short for Secessionist, a term grossly misrepresenting the movement violently resisting Republic control over systems beyond the Core _._ Some say Republic tyranny, and Venetia agrees.

“Fragging fantastic. So it _was_ a bunch of zealots that cleared the freighter I rode in,” Venetia snarks with a roll of her eyes. She scans the entire room, a small store of sorts - with another cage across her, but powered down. “Vac-heads. Better ways to get back at the Republic than kidnapping Jaeger pilots or enacting misplaced acts of terror. Bomb a Shatterdome for once. Can’t be that kriffing hard, can it? Maybe you should let _your_ superiors know.”

The hooded woman doesn’t rise to Venetia’s bait, only sniffs. “Once you are done moaning about your situation, do inform me. I suggest you hurry. The Seccers will return in minutes with another.”

“Who’s that?”

“Atton.” The woman’s lip curls in disgust, piquing Venetia’s interest, but she doesn’t say more. “You will need to feign unconsciousness before they arrive. When they do, they will deactivate your cage to drag you out.”

“And I’ll surprise them with fists in their face,” Venetia gleefully completes the thought. The Seccers deserve it. Every last one of them. Especially when civilians are acceptable collateral in their operations. 

She settles back into an uncomfortable crouch, her back against the metal backbone of the cage; hard to her skin, even through her layers of a shirt and jacket. Who would’ve thought she’d be collaborating with a Seccer defector - presumably - to save herself? 

She resigns herself to the moment. “You have an exit plan from this facility?”

“Would I arrange this without an inkling of that?”

Venetia closes her eyes, unruffled by the hooded woman’s bluntness. Granted, she’s unsettled by sightless eyes staring dead right at her, but Venetia sees the woman’s age in the braids of white hair peeking out of her hood. That’s probably why she’s as abrasive as Tatooine sand, so she lets it slide. “Can’t be too careful.”

The door opens. Voices float in: someone’s grunting in pain. Bootsteps. Closer by the heartbeat banging in Venetia’s chest, anticipation tingling her skin. If there’s anything she misses from the War, it’s the taste of battle. The adrenaline zinging through her system, the ache of muscles straining from the effort. 

The feeling of being alive.

“Shut up," one growls. A _whack_ ; kneecap to flesh. Another yelp of pain. “Get your sorry _shebs_ into the cage before I shock you into it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Like I can do anything with my hands cuffed.” Shuffling of feet and the slight clink-clink of metal; _how did she not hear it before_? “Not that you’d even care, since you clearly haven’t listened to anything I’ve said. You know, the part where I’m _innoc_ -”

Venetia tries not to flinch at the heavy _smack_ of a blaster to cheek. But she’s sorry for the nerfherder, whoever they are. Human, from the sound of their voice.

“ _Fool_ ,” the hooded woman mutters; one Venetia barely hears over the zap of a Force cage powering up.

“That’ll teach you to blab like a vac-head.” The keyboard of Venetia’s cage clicks as the guard types the passcode, before the cage powers down with a zap.

Air - _fresh_ -er air that doesn’t spark with sonic residue - fills her nostrils as she’s dragged to her feet, but she keeps herself utterly limp. The Seccer holds her with a vice on her arm. There's the telling _clink_ of more stun cuffs, before the smooth metal clamps around a wrist.

Venetia grins. 

She bashes the Seccer in the face with her half-cuffed hands, breaking bone and metal. As they yelp from the pain, she swings. Again. And again, until they collapse on the floor, flecks of blood on their face and the floor; purplish and crimson against the dull gray of durasteel. 

Panting, she marvels at her handiwork. Hand-to-hand is messy but effective. A few stun bolts ensures the Seccer stays down for a few more hours.

“Not that I don’t enjoy the show, but I’d appreciate getting us _out_ of these cages?” Atton says, and Venetia gets her first look at him. 

_Karking_ hell. Another of those scruffy, roguish types overly attached to their styled hair. Guessing from Atton’s ribbed jacket, a pilot. Or smuggler, though Venetia knows them to dress with less flash. Given the setting, however, he's probably another Seccer deserter.

She shakes off her stun cuffs, broken from the scuffle with the Seccer, and unlocks their cages - the hooded woman, then Atton; himself stepping out of his cage with a smirk and a _thanks, lady_ that Venetia rolls her eyes at.

Once done, they grab their belongings from the cylinders in the room. Venetia goes on rifling through the Seccer’s pockets, coming up with keycards and a comlink, besides a blaster she tosses to the hooded woman after pumping the Seccer full of stun bolts.

“Never caught your name,” Venetia says to her, and- _kark_ , she’s blind. Her eyes are white. But she can see implants curving around her eyes like a vice. 

“You may call me Kreia. We need to move. Quickly.” 

“Great,” Atton appears beside Venetia, too close that she flinches away with a _psht._ “Now I can call you something besides _vicious old scow_.” 

Venetia barks out in laughter, herself in the midst of re-tying up her short hair in a tight bun. “Fantastic. Let’s hope we don’t kill ourselves before the Seccers do.”

“If the fool behaves himself, we will escape this facility.”

“Hey. I wanna blast from this underground shithole as much as you do, Seccer traitor.”


	2. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Strap in, everyone.” Atton flicks various switches with enough force to rip them from their sockets. Then, he engages manual control. “We're coming in. Apparently I’m now a Jaeger pilot for my favourite employer, because someone took it upon themselves to decide for me.”_

In time, they slip into a hangar with a small freighter lacking a crew. Kreia unlocks the bay doors and the ship, just as Seccer troops arrive with their blasterfire peppering the hull.

Venetia surprises them by firing from the still-lowered boarding ramp, teeth bared and blaster at her hip. She catches a bolt on her blaster arm and her shin. Cursing, she sinks to a crouch from the pain. Thankfully, grazes only; but they eat through her clothes to sear her skin. 

Just as she feels more bolts pinging too close for comfort, the ship rumbles and rises. So does the ramp. Soon enough, Atton blasts the three of them into the sky before the hangar doors shut on them.

She has never been so glad to have doors shut on her. 

Venetia sinks into a seat in the cockpit. Atton turns to her, “So where are we going again?” 

“Yavin,” Venetia and Kreia answer simultaneously. Blinking in surprise, Venetia turns to Kreia. “You’re really betraying your oaths?”

“My reasons are my own.” Then, a shift to concern, blank eyes boring into her like a tractor beam. “You are hurt.” 

_Why do you care?_

“Yavin?” Atton looks between them over his shoulder; Venetia to Kreia, Kreia to Venetia. When neither responds, he shrugs, gaze turning skyward again. “I mean, why the hell not, right? S’long as we get away from this shit-pit.”

Only when blue skies darken to the dark void of space, does Venetia sigh in relief. She did not expect to escape the Seccer facility, let alone with Seccer _turncoats._ Her world has been spinning on an indeterminable axis the moment she ( _foolishly!_ ) agreed to Jaeger again. What she needs now is the blessed reprieve of sleep, if it deigns to indulge her. 

That’s what she does, not waiting for a response. “I’ll be sleeping somewhere dark and quiet, if anything _farkled_ happens. Hopefully not.”

Kreia watches as Venetia staggers out, heading for the hold. 

Kreia says nothing. 

=

Even after lathering kolto paste on her raw, red skin; paste scraped out of the inside of a medpac, her wounds continue to sting. She'd risked acute kolto poisoning just for this, ‘cause kolto cannot be delivered undiluted, and without an injector delivery system, lest it become a painful way to die. Still, it keeps her hands busy. Just like how she picks up her blaster and rummages for her cleaning kit soon after, on instinct.

Hyperspace travel remains the worst parts of all the runs she's made.

“You know, I never caught your name, but think I know you.”

Venetia looks up from cleaning her blaster. Atton leans against the doorframe of the cargo hold as if he owns the ship. Her personal space and time, too, form the way he self-invited himself into her space. 

_What a slimeball_. “Load of bantha crap. We just met.”

“Sure. Familiar face, and then you wanted to go to Yavin? I know there’s a Shatterdome there.” Atton crouches across her, close enough that she can’t avoid looking at him. “You’re that Jaeger pilot, right? The one from the War.”

_The one who disgraced her rank and her profession._

_The one who should've died instead._

“And you’re the Supreme Chancellor. Very funny.” Venetia roughly swipes the surface of her blaster barrel. The cloth she holds flies from her grasp. She curses under her breath, but doesn’t move to pick it up. Instead, she glares at Atton. “So what if I am?”

Atton shrugs. “I don’t know. Just making conversation. Maybe you're one of those hotshot pilots back in the day. Face splashed all over the holovids or something.” He cocks his head. “Why so defens-”

Proximity alarms cut him off. One, two, three seconds of blaring… and then, silence. 

Atton stays tense, as if waiting for the alarms to sound again. 

“You gonna start piloting the ship or what?” Venetia prods, noticing a new and ugly nick on the barrel she's got to smooth over. She runs a finger over it, feeling it rub sharp against her skin. “Kreia’s not gonna like it if we crash into an asteroid.” 

“You know, I'd love it if that happens. Like, _finally_ , sweet embrace of death.” He glances towards the cockpit and back to her, still rooted to the floor. “Talk later then. You're coming, right? Someone's gotta talk to ground control before they vape us outta the sky.” 

“I am. Just- just give me a moment.” 

Only when Kreia and Atton’s bickering floats over from the cockpit, Venetia sloops her shoulders. Too much tension in her muscles, but she doesn't know how to relax. 

She doesn’t trust Atton, knowing where she met him. Force knows what he’ll do when he discovers her past; what former Seccers will do to Jaeger pilots they collectively hate. Nor does she remotely like him as a person, him prying around and invading her personal space - but not annoying enough to make her lash out.

Just- she can’t understand why she wishes it'd be different with him. Why she wishes it'd be different with every new face she meets. Why she yearns to be _seen_ , as if she can demand this from those who never walked her path? 

This hope straining in her chest is a curse.

=

When she limps into the cramped cockpit, Kreia is standing over the ship's mic. 

“Access code Z9638-C. Ranger Kae reporting with Jaeger recruits onboard.”

Atton mouths angrily at Kreia - not that Kreia notices. _Jaeger pilots?_

“You didn't say you were a Ranger.” Venetia steadies herself against the back of Atton’s pilot chair, favouring her uninjured leg. Rain hammers against the transparisteel, and she feels the ship shudder as they streak closer to the Shatterdome.

“I saw no need to reveal my work behind Seccer lines. The _fool,_ on the other hand, was a Seccer interrogator for credits.” 

Atton twists in his seat with a snarl. “ _Back off_. I didn't even talk shit about you.” 

For a moment, Venetia thinks he'll-

The comms crackle again. “Ground Control to unidentified freighter. Landing rights granted. Follow your designated starfighter to your pad. Prepare for inspection upon landing.”

Just outside the cockpit transparisteel, a familiar starfighter in stripes of PGDC yellow wiggles its wings.

“Acknowledged, Control.” Kreia settles into her seat with the care of an old woman, as if she hasn't just provoked Atton. If it's wilful ignorance, she's doing a _karking_ good job of it.

“Strap in, everyone.” Atton flicks various switches with enough force to rip them from their sockets. Then, he engages manual control. “We're coming in. Apparently I’m now a Jaeger pilot for my favourite employer, because someone took it upon themselves to decide for me.”

Venetia thinks of saying something - but doesn’t. Not here. She doesn’t want to start conversations she can’t finish, even if Atton’s fire is familiar; licks at her insides still. It makes her squirm. 

As Venetia straps herself in her seat, she thinks of this moment and the moments leading to it. She's back where she yearns to be - possibly piloting Jaegers, and smashing Exogorths as they appear. Fighting the good fight, like she used to. 

Yet, no amount of Yavin’s lush greenery speeding up to them can soothe the shipwide chill creeping in her bones.

This isn’t home for her. Not for a long time.

=

Even in the pouring rain, two Rangers in tell-tale fatigues stand at the foot of the boarding ramp. With their Corps raincoats, they blend in so well with the gray of the landing deck that Venetia has to blink twice to make them out from the scenery. 

Oh, the younger one wears a forest green scarf around his neck. Goggles too, and they rest nicely over his scarf. It's a nice touch, nicer than the cosmetic allowances she knows Jaeger technicians are permitted. Or not, given the Ranger wings embossed on his collar.

“Welcome to the Yavin Shatterdome,” the younger one tilts the umbrella in his hands, stepping up to shake Venetia’s hand first, then Kreia, and Atton last. “Ignore the rain - otherwise, it’s lush greenery all around in the last bastion against the Exogorths. I’m Zayne Carrick.” He smiles with a youthful exuberance that Venetia finds refreshing. How long since she's met someone who hasn't been jaded by war? Then, he bashfully ruffles his curly hair and the back of his neck, as if realising who he’s standing with. “Or Ranger Carrick, whichever suits you.”

“ _Bah_. What are trivial formalities in a war?” Beside Zayne is an older, bald man with a kindly smile that wrinkles his gray mustache. “I'm Jolee. Zayne and I will help you settle in, get comfy before the Marshals are ready to debrief you rookies about your adventures in a Seccer facility. Or rookie,” he nods at Atton, who shrugs in return - but his eyes dart to Venetia and lingers, as if figuring her out. “As for Ranger Kae...”

Kreia crisply replies. “I have my own orders.”

“Yep. We won’t keep you.” Jolee waves as Kreia walks away; a lone figure cutting across the landing pad in the pouring rain. 

"Told you.” Atton leans in close before Venetia realises, and she stiffens. “That old scow isn’t firing on all thrusters.”

Jolee signals to Venetia and Atton. “Come now, you two. Better underground than be caught in the rain.”

They huddle together under the umbrellas, letting the older Ranger lead them around. They listen on in silence, too, as Jolee orientates them on responsibilities and duties to expect in future. They drop off their umbrellas at the entrance of the lift down, and Venetia feels the gust of ventilation already drying her damp clothes and skin. 

While sharing on the variety of food available in the mess, Jolee's comlink buzzes. He makes a face, seeing the identity of his caller. “Marshal Karath?” Shrugging, he turns to the group. “I have to go. But don't be a stranger, you two!” 

“He's always doing officer things. Internal security, he tells me, but not a lot because I don’t have clearance for that.” Zayne says, waving Jolee off. The old man disappears behind elevator double doors, and the lift descends once again into the depths of the Shatterdome. “But he's funny. His stories are amazing.”

Venetia has a good feeling about the wizened officer. She'll try to catch him in the mess next time, to hear the rest of his reviews on mess cuisine.

It's an all-too-familiar walk for Venetia, down the lift and into more claustrophobic corridors. The Shatterdome is built like a bunker, so she'll never escape the heaviness of filtered air and the lingering fear of the walls giving way to crush- 

- _trapped. Exogorth crushing the chest of the Thunder Smash by biting down and closer to the three of them. Alarms blare in her ears and she can't move-_

“Just how big is this complex?” Atton walks past her and Venetia finds herself trailing.

“Big enough to hold seven active Jaegers and the full complement of crew and command for it.” Zayne swipes his ID against the door panel. It whooses open. They enter and spill out into the habitation deck of endless gray; rooms on both sides of a corridor stretching into the distance. “Usually we house three, but with the Republic focusing on planetary turbolasers and shutting down Shatterdomes in the Outer Rim…” 

“Oh, I get it.” Atton groans. “You're the last ones in this sector.” 

“‘Fraid so. Yet, the space worms keep coming. From what I heard, K-Science has some disturbing predictions, but I guess the Marshals will brief us when necessary. Anyway...” Zayne gestures to the rooms on both sides with flourish. “These are your rooms.”

Venetia feels the start of a headache pounding at the back of her skull. Her eyes dart to the room on the left, half expecting- 

Atton does a double-take. “Opposite each other?” 

“Uh-uh. Least that's what Jolee told me. Honestly, I just tagged along to see new faces.” He frowns. “Are the rooms okay?” 

“Yeah,” Venetia bites out, _finally_ , realising how badly she wants to bolt herself behind the quieter side of a door. “I- See you then.”

So she does, leaving both of them outside without another word. 

Zayne looks to Atton, wide-eyed, but Atton sighs with a shake of his head. “Don't look at me - I just met her.” 

Venetia can't explain the general sense of unease gripping her chest. She can only sink to her knees, her back against the door and hands cradling her head in some semblance of comfort against a barrage of the familiar - sensations, sights, sounds.

Unfurnished as it is now, this is her old room. 

The room across hers is - _was_ \- Alek’s. 

=

There isn't a briefing. Only a short conversation with Marshal Karath over holo to be at the Sunrider Combat Room in three hours, prepared to spar with potential co-pilots. Hours she spends trying to get some shut-eye, only to stare at the ceiling, rigid and uneasy on her bed. Hearing the name Sunrider shovels up more unpleasant memories; another mentor disappointed and more loose ends from her past ramming into her face like a ronto. 

_What would Vima say if she was here?_

_Smack me, maybe._

After a while, she pads around her room. She finds her jacket, her old _Thunder Smash_ hoodie, navy blue and nicked at the edges inside a cupboard. 

It takes her one whole minute before she can look away. She slams the cupboard shut. 

But _…_

She opens it again and pulls the jacket off its hangar. Shrugs it on gingerly, taking care not to rip the fabric. Force, how she’d considered tossing it in the nearest incinerator. Force, how she'd considered tossing _herself_ into the incinerator for returning here; letting Onasi weaken her resolve with guilt-tripping, and-

And allowing herself to be swayed by that. 

She leaves for the hangar, her jacket hanging loose off her frame. 

=

It’s beautiful. 

Leaning against the railing, the _Thunder Smash_ is exactly how Venetia remembers it - stocky, built-like-a-ronto frame hiding turbolasers within its chassis and two sledgehammers of fists. It’s so _Alek_ , in all the ways that matter. She’s the agile fighter to Lennox’s tactical mind and Alek’s sheer hardheadedness. With the three of them Drifting in the same conn-pod, something as ungainly as the _Thunder Smash_ can move with the grace of a smaller Mark IV model.

She still gets pangs in her chest when she thinks of him. Like now. Whenever it happens, she can’t but close her eyes and ride out the feeling. Otherwise, she’ll be overwhelmed from resisting.

The hull is navy blue, new _beskar_ instead of previous durasteel. Yet, they gleam in the low-light of the hangar. Whoever the technicians working on the _Thunder Smash_ are, she appreciates how they kept it how it was. Still scored and dented in places, like on the day she lost her wings. The paint touch-up is a tasteful new addition, too. 

But the gauntlets. Oh, Venetia knows what she’s looking at, and she loves it.

“Like what you see? I made sure the upgrades to a Mark III didn’t outshine its old self.”

Venetia turns to see a shorter woman approaching her. Decked in navy coveralls, her goggles are pushed up to her forehead and into ginger hair which sticks up in places. Venetia notices the ID card tacked to a pocket of her ground crew vest, but she doesn’t miss the familiar patch stitched on her sleeves.

“I do,” Venetia answers. So this is the person who thinks mounting twin turbolaser cannons on a Jaeger’s fist is a brilliant idea. Force, it _is_. “Thanks for keeping my Jaeger in one piece.” 

“I’m good at saving things. The best in the sector. And that’s not bragging, that’s fact. Just felt like a waste letting it fall into disrepair, so here I am.” She holds out her hand that Venetia shakes. “I’m Mira, by the way.”

“Ven, but you probably knew that already.”

“I do, but it’s different meeting the person than listening about the legend.”

Venetia feels herself tense. “So you know what I did.”

“Relax.” Mira stresses the back with a familiar drawl, an accent that pulls Venetia back to the War. “Your Jaeger’s my first and only Jaeger I’ve worked on. That’s not gonna change, unless you decide otherwise. Then I’ll be out of a job.”

Mira’s wit is tibanna-dry. Despite herself, Venetia bursts out laughing, wondering how she attracts... colourful personalities wherever she goes. Yet, it can’t overshadow the relief she feels - Mira is one less person she has to fight, _to_ _prove herself to._

She smiles at Mira, hoping the younger woman can feel her gratitude. “Thanks for giving me a chance.”

The engineer cocks her head in reply. “Thanks for saving the galaxy.”


	3. Drift Compatibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She turns to see Brianna watching her in expectation, face split wide with a mirrored smile. “It's nice to be back in a Jaeger.”
> 
> “Just like old times, Ranger,” Bao-Dur says, and there’s a smile in that tone. “Initiating neural handshake in three…”

_ TO: JAEGER TECH Research Division  _

_ FROM: JAEGER TECH Medical Corps  _

_ Memo MC-8273 _

_ Only five pilots have piloted Jaegers solo in recent memory.  _

_ Three of them did not survive the attempt. _

_ These pilots cannot pilot a Jaeger again on threat of death. Patient (discharged) is currently receiving adequate medication to alleviate psychosomatic symptoms caused by associated neural degeneration. Is deemed fit for active service, and as of now, is still serving as Marshal. _

_ The other was recently discharged from the PGDC, despite J-Tech reservations. Pilot showed similar signs of neural damage, but did not receive necessary help (note: solo piloted after one copilot died and another unconscious). Current location unknown.  _

_ Please advise.  _

=

The weaponsmaster of the Sunrider Combat Room is someone she hasn't met - not even from before. He introduces himself with a crushing handshake and a mirthless smile. Quintessentially  _ Mandalorian _ .

“Rohlan Dyre. Officer in rank, but I prefer training the cadets over Council duties.” His expression betrays nothing. ”A rank earned for unquestioningly obeying orders back in the War.” 

_ So he's a cynic _ . Venetia knows his kind;  _ prefers _ it, because that, she understands. “Ven, but you probably knew that already.” 

He hands over a necklace, a chain with a tag dangling off it, and Venetia gratefully accepts it. He gives her a moment, turning to the rack of weapons beside him.

Venetia relishes the familiar chill of metal against her skin and wears her new holotags around her neck, tucking it under the collar of her shirt. Force, how much of a vac-head is she to covet trinkets that chain her to an organisation that had cast her out?

Her nostalgia is cut short. She catches the pair of staffs Rohlan tosses at her without difficulty and hefts them. The wood is supple, firm. Bends enough with every hit to absorb the blow. 

It's perfect. 

She smiles at Rohlan.  _ He understands too _ . “How’d you know?” 

“I watched your footing as you approached me. How you balance your body with ease, being comfortable in your movements. Others move like warriors, but you make it a dance.” 

“I do,” Venetia says, while moving to a dummy near the wall to practice some drills. She's been given sticks to spar with, but in her hands, ordinary sticks of wood become lethal - if she makes it so. But first, she shrugs off her jacket and hangs it - carefully - off a pipe.

_ Thud. Thud. Thud.  _ Constant strokes, steady rhythm; reverberating in the quiet of the room. She's missed this, the chance to unleash her pent-up unease while refining her skills. “So, who am I sparring with today?” 

“You'll find out,” Rohlan answers. “Most of them volunteered, so do  not hold back.”

“Like I'd hold back? Thought you heard of me.”

“You toy with them. Use five moves to finish what you can do in three. Aesthetics over utility.” Rohlan meets her gaze from across the room, in the middle of dragging practice mats to the centre. “That’s dancing, is it not?” 

“It's both. Still gets the job done, yeah?” Venetia hums, smacking the mannequin hard on its cheek a final time. It wobbles on its stand. She wipes away the sweat on her forehead as she walks back to Rohlan. Starts helping him arrange the practice mats in the centre of the room, too. “You're good at what you do.” 

“This is how I honour the Baran Do Sages who instructed me.” 

The door opens with a  _ whoosh _ . Someone walks in, wearing Corps fatigues sans the navy sweater common to Academy graduates.

“ _ Him _ ?” Venetia groans, just as Atton does with a “ _ Her _ ?” 

“He isn’t the only candidate. We're in a bit of a situation here, Rangers. In need of  _ more _ Jaeger pairs.” Rohlan throws his battlestaff to Atton, who catches it.  _ Barely _ . 

Venetia shakes her head.

“He's a mercenary,” she protests, just as Atton mutters, “She's a coward.” 

“Thank  _ Mand’alor  _ Drift compatibility doesn't give a bantha’s  _ shebs _ about how saintly you are, only how well you synergise.” Rohlan tap, tap,  _ taps _ the sparring mat with a battlestaff. “Begin.

Venetia jerks her gaze back to Atton, twirling her dual staves to shift into her previous rhythm. Meanwhile, Atton eases into an Echani stance - _ oh?  _ \- staff held along the line of his arm. He shrugs in response. 

“How about we just get this over with?” he says.

It’s a mistake. Before he’s done talking, Venetia lunges. 

For a foolish moment, she forgets who she’s sparring with. Where she is. When this is. 

When the euphoria passes, the face at the end of her sticks makes her want to retch.

=

By the time they're done, all eight of candidates who turned up to spar, Venetia’s stomach is grumbling. A moment passes, before she decides to towel down her sweat and amble towards the mess for dinner. If she returns to her room, she'll only wake up tomorrow. 

Force, she just landed here half a day ago.

She doesn't want to think about her tryouts. Doesn't want to  _ dwell _ on how Atton’s the best of the bunch, herself forgetting for a moment that he isn't  _ Alek _ and it's years later and she's older and not the same, starry-eyed pilot excited to Drift for the first time. How can he, a scoundrel, a mercenary - a  _ Seccer turncoat  _ \- be the one to match her?

As much as she scoffs at the esoteric nature of the Drift, she cannot deny this: sometimes, it’s beyond them to comprehend how exactly it works.

The waft of hot food helps her forget. That, and how she spots people she - under  _ no _ circumstances - wants to talk to.

“Ven! Come sit with us,” Zayne calls over from their table, sitting with Jolee and a white-haired woman she doesn't recognise; an  _ Echani _ . Enough that her heartbeat spikes on seeing such white hair, settling when she doesn’t recognise the face. 

Venetia meanders through the table to them, her tray of food in hand, Zayne carrying on oblivious. “You've already met the old man, but this is Brianna. Fresh out of the Academy, and looking for a copilot.” 

Venetia shoots Brianna a questioning look as she sits. The Echani is young, but she senses durasteel beneath her reserved demeanor. It isn’t that that reels her in, though - Venetia does not take her gaze off Brianna’s snow-white eyes. “You weren't at my tryouts.”

“Ah,” Brianna looks away. “I am only weeks past graduation. Your other candidates have previous combat experience. I did not consider myself worthy.”

“Drifting works in mysterious ways, Brianna. Almost like it has a mind of its own.”

Brianna only smiles at that - but it's more embarrassed than anything, however much reaction her flat expression can convey. She turns back to her food and Venetia thinks she should, too. And she does, letting the easy conversation between Zayne and Jolee fill the lull. Her stomach has been rumbling - she’d better oblige.

“Anyway, you alright, kid?” Jolee asks between mouthfuls of stew. “You looked a bit spaced before, walking in like a lost kinrath pup.” 

“No, just-” Venetia snaps back to here but drifts off again, coming back to realise who she’s watching with dawning horror; a feeling she claws back down. It’s too much effort to explain, especially to strangers like present company. “Almost thought I had to eat in the hangar again, which isn’t half-bad, honestly.”

Zayne follows her line of sight, sighing when he realises where it ends. The veterans of the Exogorth Wars, occupying the tables at the far end of the mess. Some of them formed the Jaeger program and the Defense Corps, thusly responsible for codifying how pilots should conduct themselves; Vrook amongst them. Now, as retired pilots, they serve the Defense Corps as trainers or Council members - the Defense Corps’s equivalent to Republic Navy High Command. 

“Yeah,” Zayne says. “Not to be rude, but I never liked them. Only Lonna’s bearable - guess that's why she's not there now. I mean, the Council still think me and Jarael should be court-martialed for illegally piloting a Jaeger - even if we did that to escape the Exchange who had a hit on us. And by escape, I mean  _ had to kill some goons along the way _ . Which makes us  brash . Like, I'm sorry if we valued our lives more than pacifist notions of respectability - they were  _ shooting  _ at us ! ”

“Do not apologise," Brianna says suddenly. "They do not welcome me completely too, knowing that I am the child of a pilot and an outsider. They pity me, thinking Atris a fool for fostering me out of kindness.”

“It's ridiculous, what is. This rule that pilots can't have relationships or families. Fraternisation and keeping things professional,  _ bah _ . Folks here risk their lives to keep everyone else safe. Everyone dies in the end, and we feel it. Keenly. Don't you, kid?” 

“Ranger  _ sir _ , I don't think-”

“-cut that  _ poodoo _ around me, Zayne-”

Zayne hoots with boyish glee, satisfied that Jolee’s adequately riled up. “I do. I'm terrified of losing Jarael with all we’ve been through, but that makes me fight harder. Faster. Stronger.”

Jolee mock chokes on his food. “Force, you kids and your cheesy declarations of affection.” 

Venetia smiles. She turns to the Echani across her while chewing on a bite of roast nerf. “Brianna, what does Atris think? Being a part of that old guard and all.”

Brianna blinks, as if surprised at being asked. It passes quickly. “I believe she adheres to their stand, that fraternisation should be avoided.” She considers her words. “But not I. Feelings are what they are. Manageable, but unavoidable.”

“Nuance?” Venetia smirks. “Makes you better than them already.”

Brianna smiles, hiding her face behind her cup of caf. “I- I do try.” 

There's a tug in Venetia's chest she hasn't felt in a while, not since Alek. Not since Lennox. 

It's hope.

=

Later that night, they spar without Officer Dyre around, and they spar beautifully. Less about challenge, more about matching their strokes - and it's hours later when they flop on the mattresses, staves rolling away. Their skin gleams with a light sheen of sweat, their breaths heavy in the stillness.

“I enjoyed it,” Brianna whispers. Not quite, her usual voice strident enough to reverberate in Venetia's bones. But now, it lacks that hard edge; now soft enough to tickle Venetia's cheek. “Thank you for the honour of sparring with someone like you.”

_ Someone like you. _ Again, that pedestal. Again, who is it they see? 

_ Who am I?  _

“It’s nothing.” Venetia rolls her head to face the Echani, her pulse still galloping from the bout. Brown eyes lock on striking white ones, and Venetia's breath catches.

She isn't blind: the younger woman is pretty. Frigid edges of a warrior encasing someone soft, someone vulnerable. Short white hair mussed, damp on her forehead. They're close enough to bump noses, and Venetia admits: she's unabashedly ogling the Echani, with the pretext of being too winded to react. 

A sudden impulse rises in her. Like a flame, flaring bright and sharp. She smothers it the instance she realises. 

This is what the Echani mean about battle. The clearest expression of feeling, the shedding of pretenses. The barest presentation of self. 

Brianna’s eyes flick to Venetia's lips, then not. Venetia notices, and says nothing. 

It’s easy to succumb to the headiness of the moment. Easy to slip into attachment, fraternisation; everything the Council warns against. 

But she can’t. Not after everything. It’s too early, too much, too  _ raw.  _ All she feels for Brianna is affection; unconditional, unadulterated. It’s how a mentor would regard a beloved student. This is how she’ll keep it. 

She props herself on an arm. “Be my copilot?” she asks, heart thudding against her ribs. 

Her worst fears don’t come to pass. Instead, Brianna searches her gaze, her expression softening. “My pleasure.” 

=

That night, she wonders how easily the invitation had slipped from her mouth. How suddenly ready she’d been to let someone else into her head, after the last two had been wrenched out by the razor-like jaws of an Exogorth.

She tosses and turns on her bed, unable to dash the feel of hot skin pressed to her lips. She longs to feel the softness of white hair between her fingers. Yet, there’s something off about the feeling. 

In her dreams, it’s someone older _. _

=

They initiate a test-run in the  _ Thunder Smash _ after breakfast. 

And that's the first Venetia hears of her, after so long. 

They're inside the connpod when they hear a commotion over speakers, before a familiar voice takes over. “She is just a cadet,  _ Ranger _ .”

Beside Venetia, Brianna marvels at the array of analog workings of a Mark III, so different to the digital of newer Mark V’s in production.

Watching Brianna gives Venetia an excuse to not answer for a second; a pause long enough to process this development. This is not how she imagines reconnecting with Atris after so long, and it shows in how she fumbles even to  _ speak _ . Years later, and she's still breathless in her presence. “Me too, years ago.” Like Brianna, Venetia flips switches and settings on the display, comforted by the greens and yellows spotting the board like fairy lights. “There's a war on, Atris, and it doesn't care if you can’t pilot.” 

“I may be K-Science, but you'd be remiss to think that renders me incapable of comprehending the War.  _ Everyone  _ in the PGDC served once. Or did you choose to conveniently forget that, like how you l-”

_ Like how you left everyone who cared about you? _

“Mistress, it is merely a test. I had every opportunity to decline, but I chose otherwise,” Brianna interrupts, her first words since the  _ Thunder Smash _ ’s conn-pod closed. “Let me have this moment.”

Through the pain of a vibroblade through her heart, Venetia imagines the scrunch of Atris’ forehead. Her flushed cheeks. Maybe her iconic side-eye, even. Despite the years, Venetia knows Atris like she knows the cavernous hole in her soul she carries, every day, all the time. 

_ Like how you left me? _

Once, Atris had been a fellow Ranger. Once, they'd faced Exogorths together in multiple-Jaeger missions. Once, Atris believed in her - and Venetia let her down. The hint of betrayal in her tone moments ago? 

Venetia deserves it.  _ All _ of it. Why else would Atris vote along with the Council to strip her wings, one stormy night years ago? 

They hear a sigh over comms. “Very well. One test, Brianna.” 

The radio crackles with a shift in frequencies, and a familiar baritone fills the airwaves; calming, soothing to Venetia’s frayed nerves.

“Apologies for the interruption, Rangers. I was caught off-guard when the good Doctor barged in and snatched my microphone.” 

“I'd be surprised too, Bao-Dur.” Even if she’s glad to meet an old friend, Venetia can’t muster the energy for a smile - already, she feels herself drained. Her interface beeps in confirmation, and her displays are all green. They're ready. She turns to see Brianna watching her in expectation, face split wide with a mirrored smile. “It's nice to be back in a Jaeger.”

“Just like old times, Ranger,” Bao-Dur says, and there’s a smile in that tone. “Initiating neural handshake in three…”

=

_ Neural handshake, steady at 67%. _

Not the best Venetia's Drifted with, but not the worst either. 

Brianna takes it harder than Venetia; proud shoulders drooping as she sits across Venetia in the mess. “I fail to understand. We are Drift compatible, are we not?” 

They had time to themselves after the test run, Venetia flocking to her room to shower and change into clean fatigues. She isn't avoiding Brianna, not really. She's just doing as she does - fleeing situations that end terribly. As if she's personally responsible for such failures. 

But unfounded or otherwise, that's what she grapples with. Every day, every minute. Ever since Malachor. 

She thinks it's a mercy Brianna isn't going to be her co-pilot. Better to stay away, far from someone like  _ her. _ “Just not compatible enough, and I don't want to risk it.”  _ Risk you.  _ Venetia pats Brianna’s arm in comfort, the woman leaning into her touch. “It happens. Nothing to feel ashamed about.” 

“Ranger, a question for you if I may ask. You have drifted with the best. What does it feel like?” 

Venetia startles at the question. “I-”

_ -sparring in complete synchronicity, herself striking Lennox parrying Alek sweeping his stick towards her feet-  _

_ -Exogorth teeth inches from her helmet, the one thing between her and the vast void of space and certain death; her mind ripping open with a scream-  _

It's always been feelings. Never as colourful as flashes of memory, only what everyone insists had happened that time over Malachor. After calibrating her mind with another, it's like a block dislodging in her mind. Thanks to the touch of another.

_ Brianna. _

Brianna knows this. She's been in Venetia's head. She's seen this. 

Yet, she asks.

Venetia blinks. “Balance.” 

Again. “Peace.” 

And again. “Home.”

This time, it's Brianna who wraps a warm hand over Venetia's; fitting into the hard lines of Venetia's fingers gone stiff from the cold. 


	4. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time she looks up, she stares at the entrance to the K-Science labs and cracks a mirthless smile. Of course. 
> 
> She walks in like she has a reason to be here.

Atton _won't_ be her copilot. Not if she has any say in this. 

That's why she spars with more pilots, seeing more faces as the days pass. Sentients of all species, ages, and combat experience - united in how they’re all Jaeger hopefuls, and how they just can't match her. 

Rohlan gives her a sympathetic smile as she leaves in a huff. Well-meaning as it is, it doesn't ease her frustration. She takes a walk to clear her head. 

It's easy to get lost in a Shatterdome; exactly what she needs. Just aimlessly wandering the halls, since her orders are to _get a damn co-pilot already, Venetia_ \- at least, how Carth said it. She considers reconnecting with people she used to serve with, but those Rangers are complete sacks of poodoo. Imagine strutting up to and going, _Hey Vrook, I love how you look more like a complete barve the older you get, because that’s who you are, right?_ If only. Meanwhile, Lennox - _Revan?_ \- is on a personal errand for Carth, and Atris- 

“ _Chut chut_ .” Venetia shakes her head. Atris is… she can't quite explain her relationship with the K-Science officer. They used to understand each other - _to love each other with the ferocity of burning stars_ \- enough to forego words, but things changed after her court-martial. _She thinks._ And with what happened during yesterday’s test-run? She doesn't know _._ It’s better to stay away.

By the time she looks up, she stares at the entrance to the K-Science labs and cracks a mirthless smile. _Of course._

She walks in like she has a reason to be here.

Inside is an entirely different world, jarring to the military precision and lifeless ferrocrete of the Shatterdome’s interior. The rank stench of Exogorth innards smacks into her enough that she recoils. Then, the lights and voices register. Venetia sinks into the nearest chair to reorient herself just in time to hear an argument pinging back and forth. 

Sitting beside stacked jars of Exogorth bits and datapads towering over her, Venetia can't see its protagonists. She has an inkling of who they are, though. 

“Don’t touch my guts!”

“ _They are encroaching on my workspace_.”

“I know, but there’s little space on my side. Allow me just a bit more space, please?”

“If they're not removed in the next five minutes, I will personally dispose of them in _your_ incinerator." 

“Atris!” 

Despite herself, Venetia chuckles. Partly because of her mounting headache, partly because K-Science Officers bicker over the strangest of things. It's a welcome change from the scorn she has to bat away in passing from unfriendly Corps personnel because of her history.

A shuffle of feet on ferrocrete. A bespectacled face peeking between stacks of items. “Ranger?” 

“Yeah,” Venetia says, sudden bravado in her lungs. “What a step-up, Atris. Knew you were K-Science, but didn't know you had to deal with Exogorth gore. You with disposal now?” 

“Do _not._ ” 

“Hello!” Another K-Science officer pops into view, sandy hair and blinding smile despite the Exogorth gore staining his apron and the labcoat under it. The way he stands and fidgets under Venetia's gaze is… familiar. “Ranger Olic, right? I keep hearing about you around the Shatterdome, so it's nice that we finally meet. I don’t leave the lab much, so I’d worried I wouldn’t be able to meet you.”

“Right,” Venetia sighs. It’s getting tiring; having her reputation precede her. She can't even remember what she _did_ , for Force's sake. It's always been fragments - of moments and emotions. “Good thing, then. Mical, right?” Mical brightens at being recognised, and Venetia can’t help but return a bemused smile. “Heard of you too, from those I’ve met in the Shatterdome so far.”

“Clearly, the ruckus you two have been making brought her here,” Kreia’s voice floats over from somewhere, somewhere higher - but where? And why here, of all places?

Venetia spots her on the catwalk above, leaning on the railing with her usual disapproving frown.

Atris rolls her eyes. “No one forced you to be here.”

“If only I had a say in not having my workstation overlook this menagerie.”

“Ignore them,” Mical says, gesturing Venetia to come over to his corner of the lab, as the voices of Kreia and Atris fade. It’s full of Exogorth bits preserved inside jars to entire tanks. “It was quieter when Ranger Kae was still on assignment behind Seccer lines.”

“How long has she been doing this?”

“Years. And she’s good at it. That’s why Marshals Karath and Onasi give her space to operate, answering only to directives from them.” 

“That’s a lot of discretion,” Venetia raises her brows. “More than what I thought the Corps would condone. Or maybe I've been gone too long.” 

“She’s that competent. Partly the reason why the Seccers do nothing more than isolated attacks in the sector, I presume. She once went dark for months behind their lines. It’s part of the Corps’s strategy to destabilise the Seccer resistance.” 

“For someone insisting they hide in their lab toying with Exogorth bits, they sure know a _karking_ lot about someone.”

Mical chuckles. “I work here, after all. Some things I do have to know, and I’m not one to not contemplate things.” He glances over to the far side of the room, Venetia following his gaze. “And- well, it’s helpful to know who you’re sharing a workspace with.” 

Turning around, Venetia sees this scene around her: Atris standing in front of her holoscreen that covers the entire height of the wall. She's shifting enough High Galactic letters with elegant strokes to give Venetia a headache - _what’s wrong with using common Aurebesh?_ \- while Kreia is back at her desk on the second floor of the lab.

Looking straight at them.

=

“Ranger, huh,” Venetia self-introduces to get Kreia’s attention - not that Kreia isn’t aware of her approach up the metal stairs. It’s just the polite thing to do, now that she’s wandering around the older woman’s work area, the various surfaces bare of clutter. “I once thought you were just another Seccer traitor.”

Now that they’re back in a Shatterdome, Kreia has shed her Seccer uniform for Defense Corps fatigues. Without the additional hood, she’s every part more intimidating as she is in her Defense Corps dossier mugshot; eyes clouded over, a permanent scowl, and flowing white sidebraids gathered into a bun at the back of her head. “People only see what they wish to see. It is their loss.”

Venetia coughs to mask her sudden embarrassment - Kreia’s dig hurt. “So you’ve said.”

“Have you come with questions?”

“That, and advice.” Venetia inhales, steeling herself for what she is about to say. Kreia will not like it. At all. “You seem to know Atton. How, why, or where matters shit to me, just- is he pilot material?”

“The _fool_? You are a greater fool than I thought for you to even consider it.”

“No choice, Kreia. He’s the one most Drift compatible with me.”

Kreia scoffs. “We were acquainted during my undercover work as a Seccer commander. However, I was not privy to his work - only whispers, words in passing about his uncanny ability to... extract information from prisoners. I do not doubt that. I only doubt everything else about him. If he is to be your choice, then the galaxy truly is doomed.”

“Well, it’s not like there’s an abundance of Jaeger hopefuls who can match me.”

“What about the child of Atris?”

_What about Atris?_

Venetia suddenly finds something interesting to look at past Kreia’s shoulder. _So talk spread around the Shatterdome quick, huh._ “It- it didn’t work out.”

“A travesty, indeed.” Kreia glances at her with the full weight of her lidless gaze that Venetia squirms, just a bit. It feels like she's peering past her pretenses and directly into her soul; to touch the self-loathing and hate wriggling under her skin. And for what? What does it matter to her, anyway? “And the Corps is in dire need of active Jaeger crews...” 

“Guess I just need to hope for a _karking_ miracle, then,” Venetia sighs, rolling her head clockwise; stretching the kinks and the sudden tension in her neck. “Hate how the Drift has a mind of its own, sometimes. How even the best sparring partners can’t maintain a high enough neural handshake before sputtering out, for reasons unknown.”

Kreia watches her like a kath hound to fresh meat. “Then you and I are far similar than you may initially believe.”

=

**_HoloNet News: Morning Edition_ **

_BREAKING: EXOGORTH ATTACKS ON THE RISE_

_Public Dissatisfaction with the Senate Mounting._

_Protests are breaking out on several Core worlds and Mid Rim planets, calling for increased efforts at containing the Exogorth threat. While Exogorths have been attacking Outer Rim worlds, there are sustained fears that Republic turbolaser batteries and fleets are insufficient to combat the threat they pose._

_While Chancellor [Tol] Cressa urges for level-headedness in these “tumultuous times”, questions can be asked of the Republic’s influence over the PGDC. Some call for an increased role of the PGDC in galactic security - such as taking an active stand against the insurgent Secessionists, but Coruscant maintains the primary role of the Republic Navy in safeguarding planetary security._

_Meanwhile, contrary to their previous tactics of bombing Republic hard targets, Seccer insurgents continue to harass Republic transports in the Outer Rim. One question remains: who is leading them?_

_(Additional Reporting by Adzo Ges, flick to page 6)_

=

Of all people to meet on her way back to her room, it’s a fellow Ranger who’d sentenced her during that court-martial those years ago.

By the time Venetia spots him, it’s too late to duck into another corridor. 

His lip curls. “You. The disgrace the Defense Corps tried to erase from history.”

 _Quick, this is an opportunity to verbally obliterate him for all the times he’d made you feel like a complete sack of poodoo_. “Morning, Vrook. I see the years have been kind to you.”

Venetia curses inwardly. _Ugh_. 

“If not for the Exogorth threat and lack of pilots, you wouldn’t be posted to this Shatterdome. You wouldn’t be a Jaeger pilot _at all_. You were better off wasting your life as a smuggler on the Outer Rim.” 

“Thank you for your vote of confidence.” _Stang_ , how Venetia wishes to box him in the jaw; grab him by the collar of his pressed Corps uniform and make him _eat it._ She begins breathing the way the medics taught her, years ago; just to keep her emotions from overwhelming her.

“I see the years away have not rubbed off your impertinence.” 

She snaps. “Apologies if I'm not the good Jaeger pilot you craved. After all, the Corps should recognise that equipping us with such tools gives us the power to save lives, protect planets vulnerable to Exogorth attacks; communities falling beyond the jurisdiction of the Republic. And then, you tell us to heel to pacifist, self-righteous Republic directives? How the _kark_ are we supposed to remain passionless in the face of clear injustice, _Councillor_?”

“Silence. You know not what you speak of. These principles have served us well for generations.”

“That's what you always say. What they always say.” She shoves past him with her fists shoved firmly in her hoodie pockets, her appetite thoroughly soured. Her mind racing between the faces of comrades beloved and lost, because of the Council's _principles._ “A _dis-_ pleasure to meet you, Vrook.”

She doesn't head to the Combat Room as originally planned. 

=

Every Shatterdome has locker rooms; any reputable Republic military-affiliated institution does, what with the Republic's fetish for bureaucratic orderliness. They're a place of gossip and life during the day shift, pilots and techs and everyone walled in close together and equalised by the same metal rectangle they're allotted for their belongings, during their entire lifespan in the Shatterdome.

She finds solace in an empty one. Prefers it that way, honestly, when it's just her and row after row of drab, plasteel lockers. Staring into the innards of her bare locker, otherwise filled with photos and piles of PGDC-issue singlets and fatigues. Her room is further than here, and she needs someplace private to scream into a box, the way Vrook jabbed words of _beskar_ deep inside her heart.

She's no home, no family alive she can remember. The old guard might’ve been family once, but she's always been too brash, too emotional for their notions of a ‘honourable’ Jaeger pilot. Too... _friendly_ with fellow pilots; or rather, _a_ fellow pilot. White-haired, and frigid-cold. And now, with dishonorable discharge a stain on her service record?

There's a flimsi of the three of them tacked to the door, one of the few people she considers home.

Her throat constricts. It hurts the longer she thinks about them.

She slams her locker shut and leaves.

Venetia passes someone familiar on her way out. A someone sitting on a bench between rows of lockers, in the midst of tying up their raven locks in a loose ponytail. Now shoulder-length, versus their messy hairdo too short to be tied in anything more elaborate than a bun before Venetia became a smuggler.

Wait, how does she make the connection? Her danger sense spikes. _Who is this? Why-_

“I heard you’re looking for copilots,” that someone says. They tilt their head and quirk their lips, all roguish _devil-may-care_ and- 

Venetia hoots like a pyjack. She wonders why the Defense Corp’s poster pilot is here instead of dazzling the galaxy with good cheer and a winning smile on the holovids. 

But it's good to see a friendly face. She smiles as Revan leans down to hug her, clapping her back in their trademark show of affection. “Not everyone's lucky enough to get their _lover_ as a Drift compatible partner.” 

“Hey, leave Bastila out of this.” Revan, all bluster and no malice, as they drag their duffel onto the floor. Venetia sits beside them. “But honestly, sister. How long _has_ it been? I missed you dearly. I don't understand why random Corps officials are getting incensed on my behalf for you abandoning me though - please ignore them. Or tell me who they are, because I can’t remember who gave you trouble back then.” Revan cracks their knuckles with a widening grin, intimidating in exercise gear. “Always in the mood for a good brawl.”

Years ago, too blinded by her own pain, she'd left Revan hanging like a coward. Yet, here they are, wanting nothing more than to protect her from her harassers. 

“Len-” Venetia blinks, then backtracks. “Revan?” 

Revan’s laugh reaches their eyes. “Whichever is easier for you, Ven.”

“Lennox, then. Len. I know ‘em better than Revan.” Ten years between them. Ten years to catch up on because of her cowardly decisions. “ _Kinda_ sure the Lennox I know can handle myself.”

“I think they do. Jaeger pilots are tough as _beskar._ But smugglers?” Revan nudges her playfully. “Surely you've got some scars. Or muscles.” Venetia flashes a coy smile, and Revan sputters. ”Force forbid, _tattoos_?” 

“Not showing, Len. You'd have to sleep with me first,” Venetia says to Revan's guffaw. “Which won’t happen, the way you’re committed to someone nice already. Unless she’s okay with it?” 

Revan smiles, sheepish, but drags a finger across their neck. 

“I figured.” Venetia laughs. “So, how are _you_ doing?”

“Never better. Smashing Exogorths in a Jaeger, Drifting like the good days...” Revan sobers with a sigh. “But I think the amnesia helped. With suppressing Alek’s death at first, when I wasn’t in a good place to process it. So, starting over wasn't as hard. Thanks to Bas.” _From Malachor. From having a part of you ripped out, a wound that can't be stitched back together._ “But back to you. Heard you have something good going with a certain Echani, _hm_?"

_Which Echani?_

“It’s...” Venetia shakes her head, shirks from Revan’s touch. It’s difficult. “I wish, Len. And maybe we’re better off separate. She’s- she deserves better.” 

“Hey, you’ll find someone. Eventually. These things need to run their course.” Revan squeezes her shoulder. “Regardless, I know the _Thunder Smash_ is in good hands. I just hope Alek’s smiling down at us, wherever he is.” 

It's been ten, lonely years. Half of which, Venetia spent losing herself on the fringes of the Outer Rim. Abandoning Lennox because she can’t see past her grief. 

She sinks on her elbows like a sack of bantha droppings - and feels like one, too. “I miss him. I wished Malachor never happened.”

“But it did. And we just- we just have to pick up what's left.” Revan watches her, drumming their fingers on their knee. “Shall we visit him?”

“Now?”

“Not like I have anything to attend to tonight. If I do, not like I want to.”

Venetia bites down her tongue, unable to face her former copilot. At least she won’t be alone. “I'd like that.” 

=

_FIELD LOGS SX58867 // [AWAITING DELETION]_

_398TH FIGHTER SQUADRON_

_BLACK LEADER_

_Probably just scuttlebutt, unreliable as usual, but I need to write it down. I can’t shake off this feeling._

_They tugged out a damaged Jaeger amongst the asteroid field of Malachor V yesterday; those rocks are all that’s left of the planet. A good chunk of the Jaeger bitten off, edges fraying with circuitry and bent durasteel._

_They couldn’t find the third body._

=

Where do Jaeger pilots go when they die?

When Jaegers die, it’s like a supernova collapsing on itself. There are no bodies to recover, no traces to gather, apart from shards of metal floating in space. Most pilots initiate the Jaeger’s self-destruct sequence, if only to kill the Exogorth in a last-ditch effort. 

No one forces them to. LOCCENT disapproves on grounds of collateral damage, but does nothing. 

Before her dishonorable discharge, Venetia loses five comrades this way.

Every Shatterdome has a monument for the fallen; the Jaeger pilots who sacrificed all for the galaxy. For the _Republic,_ Venetia thinks morosely to herself sometimes, but at Alek’s memorial alcove, she has no cutting words to offer.

She only dips her head and stiffens her back in respect for the dead.

Heroes die young.

What's left of Alek is a hologram and a stitched name tag, one unfastened from PGDC fatigues. If not for Lennox, two more names would’ve accompanied Alek. The Council believes memorial walls are too informal, so every Shatterdome houses a memorial hall, regardless of how remote their location is. Even Yavin, their home base and last Shatterdome in the Outer Rim.

Revan pulls her to their side and she lets them. Shoulder to shoulder, they stand in silence in an empty room, with only them and the faces of the familiar dead around.

Unless they close the Breach, it’ll be their faces here too, soon enough.

Venetia speaks, her words like vibroshiv blades dragging on platinum. “Aren't you furious at me for abandoning you?”

“I was, once. But now…” Revan looks her over, from her tired eyes to her beat-up Jaeger jacket a size too big. 

She sees nothing but resignation in their eyes.

Heroes die young.

Revan pulls back her hair, past her ears, and presses a kiss to her forehead. “I'm just glad you're here.”


	5. New Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Revan to LOCCENT. What’s happening?” Revan says into their comlink, climbing metal stairs two noisy steps at a time. Venetia is close behind. “Exogorths?”
> 
> “Negative.” Marshal Karath, the dour counterpoint to Marshal Onasi. “Situation in the hangars, Bay Sixteen. Still awaiting a sitrep, stand by for further instructions.”

Their walk out of the Yavin Memorial Hall is sombre; neither speaking with words, only with little gestures of pilots who once Drifted together. A tap on the wrist here, a flick of their eyes there, as they navigate the dizzying corridors of the Shatterdome’s lower levels together. Neither has said anything yet, but their steps lead up to the personnel quarters. A destination they’ve agreed on without a sound.

Their comlinks beep the moment the Shatterdome-wide alarms blare.

“Revan to LOCCENT. What’s happening?” Revan says into their comlink, climbing metal stairs two noisy steps at a time. Venetia is close behind. “Exogorths?”

“Negative.” Marshal Karath, the dour counterpoint to Cart-  _ Marshal _ Onasi. “Situation in the hangars, Bay Sixteen. Still awaiting a sitrep, stand by for further instructions.” 

“Copy that, Marshal.” Revan turns as Venetia catches up to them at the top of the stairs, neither remotely not out of breath. “Thinking what I’m thinking?”

“You know I don’t shy away from trouble.”

“Perfect,” Revan grins. Baring teeth, cocking their head to a side. “Let’s go.” 

=

Hangar Sixteen is two levels up, and for fit pilots like them, it takes less than ten minutes to burst onto the hangar floor into a crowd gathering around a Jaeger’s feet. This Jaeger is a fresh Mark V with still-gleaming doonium plating, without a name lasered onto its skin. Without a pair of pilots to call it a fortress against Exogorths.

Venetia looks to Revan just as they do - confusion in each other's gaze; a cocked brow for Venetia, narrowed eyes for Revan. It lasts a split-second before shouts from the crowd draw their attention.

“Space her!”

“Is she a Seccer spy?”

“How in the nine Corellian  _ hells _ did she infiltrate the Shatterdome?”

“ _ Everyone _ ,” a voice booms, and the hangar quietens. No one,  _ no one _ receives as much deference with a tone like that, even more than Marshal Onasi. It’s a tone reserved for the most mythical of Jaeger pilots. 

Marshal Canderous Ordo - better known as  _ Mand’alor _ , uniter of the Mandalorian clans - strides in, just as Revan and Venetia elbow their way to the front. Marshal of the Mid-Rim Shatterdomes, and  _ the  _ first Jaeger pilot, back when Jaegers were simply upscaled modifications of Basilisk War Droids. It shows in Ordo’s sure footing, in his bars of medals tacked to his chest; commanding the attention of the crowd as he approaches the trio in the centre. If not for him, no Mandalorians would be serving in the Corps; the same Corps under the Republic who decided the Exogorths were a threat when  _ Republic Space  _ fell under attack. Not when Mandalorian space, or Outer Rim territories were. 

Mandalorians do not forget grudges easily, and the Exogorth Wars happened in recent memory. 

Brianna pins a hooded person face-down on the ground. There’s a J-Tech engineer in grimy coveralls standing over them both - Mira, Venetia realises with a start. She’s pointing a blaster at the person’s head.

“Explain yourselves,” Canderous barks, and Mira stands a little straighter. Venetia notes how her gait stiffens, and so does her fists. _Like bracing for a fight._ “Before I do.”

“Marshal, we found her poking around the Jaegers, without a Defense Corps pass.” Mira jerks her head towards the woman weakly squirming under Brianna’s armlock, and Venetia follows the gesture. Brianna presses a knee to her back, and has her arm twisted in a painful lock. “She bolted the moment after and Ranger Brianna managed to catch her. This-” Mira shakes a bottle of distinctive red-blue capsules;  _ Seccer _ poison capsules “-was what Ranger Brianna managed to knock out of her pocket.”

“A  _ Miraluka _ , of all sentients.” Ordo grinds his jaw. “Sitrep appreciated, Technician.” Without missing a beat, he unholsters his pistol and shoots the Miraluka in the back.

The Miraluka goes limp. The crowd gasps. Someone curses. Others say nothing.

“That’s Ordo for you,” Revan leans in to whisper to Venetia. “Still the same  _ sleemo  _ despite the years.”

“I stunned her, but who knows how long before she comes to again.” Canderous holsters his blasters with a scowl. “Get her to the medbay and Ell. I’ll inform Onasi about this intrusion. Otherwise, dismissed.” 

“ _ Sir _ ,” Mira and Brianna echoes, and they hoist the unconscious woman on their shoulders between them.

The crowd breaks up, meandering back to their respective tasks around the hangar. Venetia and Revan fall into step behind the trio like unofficial sentries.

When Venetia had first arrived at the Shatterdome, the medbay had holo-ed her to check herself in for a medical, but it’s been days and she still hasn’t. She doesn’t plan to - even if that’s where they’re headed. If she’s still on her feet, there’s nothing wrong with her. She just hopes the counter staff don’t recognise her the moment she walks in. 

Revan’s comlink beeps with a message - when does it  _ not _ , Venetia grumbles to herself. Revan -  _ Lennox  _ \- has always been the more sociable, presentable of their trio; charming words and an affable demeanour to hook even the hard-hearted. The one spoken of with enviable awe and respect, then and now. 

Venetia was one point of the  _ Thunder Smash’s  _ famous trinity once, but she enjoys none of that likeability. On days where grief strips her bare, resentment towards Lennox is what gushes through her veins. She’s always been the unstable one of their trio. The one who never quite fit.

_ Duo _ . She flinches.  _ It’s just a duo, now. _

“Hey,” Revan answers. Their face softens with the caller’s reply; strained lines easing to a smile. “Yeah, I’m heading there now. Got someone you’d love to talk to, too.”

Venetia thinks of the personnel she’s yet to meet as a newcomer to Yavin’s Shatterdome. It’s an endless list. 

She rubs her forehead with a sigh.

=

When they both walk in, Venetia sees past the beds to see the hangar beyond the room-length windows. It snatches her attention, her feet padding over to the glass. 

“Finally I meet Revan's former co-pilot, a hero from the Exogorth Wars. It is a pleasure.” 

Venetia snaps back in time to see someone approaching her. Sharp jaw and glacial irises aside, it also strikes Venetia how this woman wears her uniform well. She doesn’t see inexperience when she looks at her.  _ Despite _ her youthful features.

“Ranger Shan,” the woman says. “Or Bastila to friends.”

“Ven. Feeling’s mutual.” Venetia doesn’t feel like a hero, and that’s before her general sensing of Ranger Shan; surely, a veteran, with a sureness to her movements, despite her short stature and brown hair braided into functional pigtails.  _ Cute. _ Venetia shakes the woman's hand - firm grip, not shying away from eye-contact. “You’re young for someone in the Corps.”

“You haven’t met Mission, then. Nor have you seen me in action.”

Venetia's smile widens. She’s always liked assertive women, and Ranger Shan sounds like a turbolaser of one. “So you have Exogorth kills to your name.”

“I was there with Revan. Holding the perimeter at the Perlemian Trade Route after the Katarr incident. Before everything, I was a daughter to treasure hunters from Talravin. When my parents found me piloting a miniature Jaeger I found in the wastes, they sent me to the Dantooine Shatterdome.” Bastila puffs her chest in clear pride of her achievements. The simple bomber jacket over a white singlet she wears is less casual wear and more formal dress uniform the way she carries herself. “I lived my entire life in the shadow of the Exogorth Wars. I was trained for this.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Venetia’s gaze lingers on her youthful features, pensive _. _

“Hey.” Revan appears and pecks Bastila's cheek; Bastila smiles as a result. “Glad to see you both being friends. Ven here needs more people she can count on.” 

“I'm already impressed,” Venetia nods at Bastila - and she's never seen someone redden so quickly before. “From what little she's told me, it's a  _ karking _ impressive list.”

“Right? I keep telling her that but it doesn't seem to hit her. Don't think she quite believes me too.”

“Oh, stop it, you two.” Bastila fights to keep the smirk off her face. She fails miserably. “Despite wheedling me, Rev, this has nothing to do with my absolute admiration of war heroes.”

“You said it," __ Revan shrugs. “Not me.” 

Bastila realises her blunder too late. Her eyes widen, her cheeks already pink, and-

“How's Visas?” Venetia effortlessly redirects to Revan. Bastila nods at her in appreciation. “Shouldn’t her repulsorlift bed be faster than us?”

“Yeah, she’s already here.” Revan looks around in caution - most beds along the walls are empty, but Revan lowers their voice and leads Bastila and Venetia deeper into the medical wing. “When you and Bas were getting to know each other, I checked with the medbay staff. Turns out, she gets an entire room to herself. A glorified cell, if you wish.”

The three of them stop in front of a plasteel door. The usual gray, just like the floorings and wall coverings of the entire base - used to be white back during the War, but the Council then realised white stained easily. 

“They’re all inside,” Revan supplies, by way of explanation. In a rare instance of nervousness, they ruffle the collar of their bomber jacket, zip pulled all the way down. A jacket matching Bastila's as pilots of the  _ Revanchist Spear _ , black synth-leather with purple streaks. Bastila’s collar has stripes of yellow, however. “Shall we?” 

Venetia nods. Revan punches the door switch. 

Inside, it's as nondescript as outside. This time, only a slit for a window, the usual medical wires and monitors to a side, and then a bed, where the Miraluka lies -  _ shackled  _ to the frame  \- with no way to tell if they're awake. Except how Mira, Brianna and a moustached, wizened man wearing a labcoat on his Corps fatigues stand around the bed, the man in the midst of explaining. 

“-Marshal risked her life there. Any shots to the face or chest could lead to fatalities.”

Mira spots them first. She motions to Brianna, her back facing them, with her eyes.

“Otherwise, thank the Force she is stable. A few hours of bed rest is what she needs. The next time I see the Marshal, I will gently remind him about this.”

“Hey,” Mira calls out to them, and Ell turns with a small smile. 

“Evening,” Revan greets - always with that  _ smile  _ \- while sauntering into the room. “Just wanted to see how she was doing. Ordo’s move was… shocking.” 

“Indeed, Ranger.” Ell motions them to stand around the bed. “I am uncertain if you have overheard, but the Miraluka is fine. A testament to her kind, though I wished that was not true. To have her homeworld ravaged by Exogorths, the few survivors of Katarr…”

“But Defense Corps personnel and Republic officials were there too,” Bastila counters. “Surely she would understand.” 

“Would you say that if you saw your homeworld destroyed?  _ Stang _ , she probably thinks  _ they _ brought the Exogorths there,” Venetia says, surprising even herself with the venom in her tone. “And I'm glad that happened. Because the Corps deserves it. So many lives lost beyond the Core, but the Republic, the Council, the Corps- they chose - and  _ choose -  _ to drag their feet. And now, they're abandoning them by pursuing planetary turbolaser systems. For only  _ Republic  _ worlds. What would that look like to someone who lost everything to Exogorths?”

Force, Venetia is furious; riding on a sudden wave of emotion from somewhere beyond her notice, bubbling over her composure like the lava pits of Mustafar. Being out of control terrifies her, but the damage has been done. 

Bastila moves to reply, but Revan cuts her off with a soothing hand on her shoulder. 

“Enough,” Ell interrupts, his gravelly voice chiding in tone alone - enough for Venetia to feel shame sting her skin. “Even if I resonated with Ranger Olic's words, this is neither the place nor time to discuss this. Remain here as long as you wish, but this is foremost a place of healing. Respect the space.”

Her mind whirling, Venetia says the first words on her lips. “Then I'll leave.” 

“Ven!” Revan swipes for her elbow, but Venetia sidesteps it; the echoes of their drift connection like instincts guiding her moves.

She exits before another word. 

=

She finds herself looping Revan's message to her just to ground herself amidst the torrent of ill-feeling crushing her chest.

“You had another sudden burst of anger, right? I used to get them. Not anymore. Your frustration with the Corps? I get that, too. Some things the Defense Corps does - or does _not_ , more like - I disagree with, too. Just- we'll talk about it. When and if you want to. Name a time and place and I'll be there. Please don’t shut me out again.”

Understanding. Composed. Emphatic. She's everything Revan isn't. 

She slides down further along the wall of her room she leans on, sinking to her knees with a grimace. 

She doesn't deserve Lennox. Can't bear to look at them without thinking about what she's done. It’s why she left, those years ago. Self-loathing pushed her away. Least, that's what she tells herself. Maybe she's just a coward. Like Atton said. A  _ deserter,  _ fleeing when it matters the most. 

Anger still rules her.  _ Emotions  _ still bend her. Even if those prescriptions are part of a flawed piloting ideology she spits on, it still grips her in a stranglehold. Jaeger pilots fight better  _ with _ emotion - only being  _ led _ by emotions into R.A.B.I.T. becomes lethal. To chase the gizka; to slip into an all-consuming hellscape of memory. 

A hellscape of her own making, her ghosts left unexcised. Because she can't bear to face them. 

And so, she lashes out. At Bastila, at Vrook. At anyone caught in her line of fire.

All because she sees herself in an unconscious Miraluka, one of the last of her species and resigned to dying by bombing the very institution that failed her.

Venetia doesn't comm back a place nor time.

=

_ CITIZENS! _

_ YOU HAVE BEEN FOOLED.  _

_ THEY ARE NOT ON YOUR SIDE. _

_ THE ARISTOCRACY ARE PUPPETS OF THE IMPERIALIST REPUBLIC REGIME, AND THEY FEED OFF YOUR HARD LABOUR WHILE THEY LIVE IN EXTRAVAGANCE AND EXCESS. _

_ THE REPUBLIC IS NOT INTERESTED IN YOUR WELFARE. THEY CARE ONLY ABOUT YOUR ABILITY TO FATTEN ITS POCKETS. COMPROMISE WITH THE REPUBLIC MEANS MORE WAR AND RUIN. _

_ Remember those who died to give you freedom. Make their sacrifices count.  _

\- A Seccer leaflet, found distributed on the lower levels of Taris.

=

“Where did you learn to be this handy with tools? You’ve a way with ‘em that I’ve only seen in an Iridonian tech I know.”

“Picked up a wrench when I was six, and never stopped since.” Mira’s voice floats down from somewhere above Venetia; the both of them dangling from cables, hugging the surface of the  _ Thunder Smash _ with tools in hand. “Some things you learn because you have to, even if you learn to enjoy it along the way.” 

“I know Mandalorian work when I see it,” Venetia says. 

The whirr of Mira’s metal polisher quietens. “Got a problem with that?”

“No. It's still good work.” The polisher whirrs back to life. “What's a grudge compared to the threat of galactic annihilation by planet-sized monsters?” 

Silence. Only the hum of machinery and the sting of ozone in the air between them. 

“Why stay, then?”

“Stay where?” 

Mira scoffs. “Here. Saving the galaxy. Wearing the colours of the Defense Corps again. Even after they  _ farkled _ you over.”

That makes Venetia stop her work; locks herself in place along the zipline and powers down her tools. “What, you my minder now? You're half my age, for Force's sake.” 

“Cool off, will you? Meant nothing by it.” Mira finds another spot to smooth over, sparks flying where the tool touches the plates of the  _ Thunder Smash. _ “Just can't decide if you feel hate, or trying to convince yourself that you do, ‘cause otherwise you'd have nothing left.” 

“ _ Kriff _ off.”

“So long as you don’t take it out on me, Ven.” Mira zips up to her level with a meaningful look. “Look, you got issues. So do I. Everyone does. Doesn’t give us a free pass to beat others with it like a forcepike. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have stuff to work out with  _ someone _ \- but whatever, I don’t care, I don’t wanna know. Keep that stick up your ass, or better yet, hit the Exogorths with it.”

Venetia wonders how badly it’ll hurt if she unhooks her zipline and plunges the entire height of her Jaeger to crash head-first into the durasteel floor. 

“Thank you,” Venetia says at last. She means it, hopes that Mira picks up on her sincerity.

Mira gives her one last look, nodding once, before zipping back up. 

=

Mira’s words sting. A lot. 

That’s why Venetia doesn’t think about it. Instead, she meanders aimlessly around the Shatterdome in search of something to busy her hands. Something to keep her mind off- everything. Preferably a solo activity. Words fail her this instant and the mere thought of socialising is exhausting.

She finds herself in the corner of a recreational room on the crew deck, nursing a hot mug of cocoa. She inhales the silvery steam and gets a kick from it. Cocoa, but spiked with juma for that extra edge. Makes her teeth chatter and her fingers tingle, with no outlet for such extra energy - so far, no one’s approached her or looked at her with the slightest hint of recognition. She fidgets in her seat, feels herself flush from the drink circulating in her system.

Then again, drunken bar brawls on base warrant disciplinary hearings, and Venetia’s reminded of why she prefers it out there in the Outer Rim slumming it as a blockade runner. Too many rules and structure in a Shatterdome and it chokes her so.

Halfway through her cup, someone from a nearby table turns on the holoscreen hanging over the pazaak tables. The new voices from a holonews channel wash over her; something about dipping economic predictions and trade disagreements that she tunes out. Her drink soothes her throat better.

She looks up when the conversation turns to riots in the Core. The screen cycles through a mélange of scenes: from public demonstrations to Seccer terror attacks and even the bloodied bodies in their aftermath; Venetia closes her eyes, but cannot shut out the noise.

_ Is the Republic abandoning the Outer Rim?  _

_ Why aren’t there Shatterdomes beyond the Mid Rim? _

_ Seccer attacks have increasingly targeted territories within the Core - what does the Republic plan to do?  _

Her appetite tossed into a trash compactor along with the drink she doesn't finish, she leaves the room.

She takes out her comlink and pings a familiar number.

Immediately, the call is answered. Breathless, like being interrupted, but an answer nonetheless. “Hey, Ven. You okay?”

“Can I talk to you?”

She can imagine that expression on Revan’s face - ear to ear, and brightening up the entire room. “Always.”

=

At the end, Revan stops her with a tap to her shoulder.

“I have something that belongs to you,” they say, as she turns. As Revan’s hand drifts to the collar of their shirt.

“Keep it.” She knows what Revan reaches for; she’s long suspected it. 

She cannot accept it. 

“Don’t you want it back?”

She considers it, she really does. That holotag carries history in its nicks and scratches, unlike the unblemished cutout resting on her ribcage. 

She leaves Revan standing at the doorway. “Not anymore.” 


	6. Post- Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Drinking alone, kid? Think of the tab you're gonna rack up because you can't share it with anyone.” Jolee raps his knuckles against the table loud enough that Venetia jumps in her seat. “These kids are throwing a big post-battle party and here you are spending credits on booze? Decisions, Ranger.”

The next Exogorth attack happens five days after Venetia arrives at the Yavin Shatterdome. 

It happens how she remembers them happening, and she contorts her feelings inside that hole in her head the moment Shatterdome-wide alarms blare.

Two Exogorths. Both Cat Fives. K-Science calls them Rotgut and _Jai’galaar._

She calls them both _karking_ lumps of crap.

As always, her comlink pings with a general alarm, and she heads for LOCCENT after stowing her valuables in her locker. 

She's not activated. Otherwise, she'd have a Marshal on her comm instead of a general alarm. Neither can she pilot a Jaeger solo. She can't bear repeating the experience, and Carth gives her a warning glance enough to dissuade her when she arrives.

Six faces are missing from the other active pilots who show up, and they correspond to the three Jaeger crews LOCCENT fusses over; with Marshals Onasi and Karath presiding. Brianna isn't a face she sees amongst the personnel present, and for reasons she still can't fathom, Venetia feels her heart sink. 

She slides over to Bao-Dur’s station, touches his shoulder in greeting. He can't but smile back, adjusting the mic of his headset; preoccupied with overseeing Jaeger launch prep as LOCCENT’S liaison officer. 

“Isn't three overkill?” Venetia says to no one, as she scans the readouts of the three Jaegers on LOCCENT’s multiple displays. 

> **_JAEGERS / ACTIVE_ **
> 
> _Revanchist Spear,_ MARK IV
> 
> Command Crew:
> 
>   * Ranger Lennox “Revan” Quinn
>   * Ranger Bastila Shan
> 

> 
> _Ryloth Star,_ MARK III 
> 
> Command Crew:
> 
>   * Ranger Lonna Vash
>   * Ranger Kaah Ohtok
> 

> 
> _Hot Prospect,_ MARK IV
> 
> Command Crew:
> 
>   * Ranger Zayne Carrick 
>   * Ranger Jarael
> 

> 
> **_JAEGERS / STANDING BY_ **
> 
> _Righteous Fury,_ MARK V
> 
> Command Crew:
> 
>   * Ranger Yuthura Ban
>   * Ranger Juhani
>   * Ranger Belaya
> 


“I would rather overkill than dead pilots, Ranger,” Marshal Karath says from behind her, at his station on the raised platform. 

“Neural handshakes calibrated for _Prospect_ and _Star. Spear_ ready for launch.” 

“Status of the _Fury_ ’s crew?” Carth says.

Bao-Dur answers. “Suited up and standing by.”

“Excellent. Launch all active crews when ready.” 

“All Jaegers launching in T-minus fifteen… fourteen…” Bao-Dur trails off. 

Venetia makes herself comfortable, standing by Bao-Dur’s workstation like a statuesque sentinel - with a permanent scowl. 

She watches silently as the Jaegers are guided into space with shuttles; watches as the Jaegers engage the Exogorths; sees them smash, shoot, and slice away at the beasts, while LOCCENT is a maelstrom of voices and movement around her. 

She's silent, too, as she watches the last Exogorth bites off the _Star's_ arm _,_ to the collective gasp of LOCCENT. Also, too, as the Exogorth coils itself around the _Star's_ neck, before snapping it clean just by tightening like a noose around its neck. 

_-can’t understand the nothingness; her arm’s there, but not there? Her heart, her mind, parts of herself ripped away but they’re? Still? There? Herself feeling the chugging of servos and creaking of metal reverberating in her bones as the Smash punches and punches and punches-_

That's when she realises the sudden pressure wrapping around her neck too. 

She opens her eyes - _when did she close them_ ? - when cheers ring in her ears, and the sting of nails into skin - _her skin -_ is too painful to ignore. There's blood in her nails, caked from time. 

Venetia leaves LOCCENT as the Marshals announce a job well done; hearing not the voices of the Jaeger crews over the comms - _all of them, alive -_ but screams. _Grief_ , from a distant past. Static in her ears, before… nothing. 

The Drift is silence in synchronicity, but in piloting solo too. 

=

_Venetia,_

_I hope you are better. I have read this ambivalence in your stance, from the very first moment we sparred, and… I did not feel it was my place to broach it with you. Do not mistake me - my silence is not callousness. I do care about you. I do know that you value your space, too. I will grant you that._

_Visas is well. She disclosed critical intelligence when Marshal Onasi questioned her. Therefore, instead of solitary confinement, Marshal Onasi has cleared her for active duty. As a Jaeger pilot. His only condition was for her to be monitored._

_I am to be her keeper now._

_Brianna._

=

Rohlan is good company. He offers nothing but undemanding silence and the chance to spar with someone forged in combat, which Venetia appreciates. She needs the practice, after smuggling for so long; sitting in a pilot's chair and feeling her innards atrophy from the drink she pours into herself. Still, there’s something about battle that invites connection, words rendered unnecessary. Talking isn’t one of Venetia’s better qualities - she detests it. That’s why she craves the silence of the Drift, the melding of minds; synchronicity, without uttering a sound. 

She should be out there. Should be inside a Jaeger, pummeling Exogorths with the rest of the crews. Not hiding in a Shatterdome. Who is she to remain inside here, safe and comfortable? This is the work of cowards, and _Force_ does that title make her cringe.

When combat doesn't numb her as it used to, she lingers instead at Mical’s workstation. Spacing out at the sound of his voice, constant and soothing as he rambles on about Exogorth innards, or the current state of the galaxy. If he's noticed, he doesn't make mention of it. 

She doesn't know how to tell him, or Lennox - even _Kreia_ \- that fighting till she collapses from exhaustion is the one remaining way to occupy her mind; distracting herself from the thoughts that whirl in her mind.

And when all else fails, she does what the scum of the galaxy do: saunter into the nearest cantina. To get _smashed_.

She leaves after no less than five shots of Mandalorian _kri’gee_ , swaying on her feet.

=

“General, have you been drinking?” 

“N- no. Absolutely-” Venetia belches with enough force that she staggers on her feet. “ _Not._ It's unbecoming of- of-”

Turns out, the _kri’gee_ was stronger than usual. The Council will _kill her_ if they find out how pissed she is. Oh, they'd _love it._ Finally, an excuse to kick her off-base, pile another reprimand on her already-colourful service record. 

She can imagine Vrook personally sending her off at the landing pad, self-aggrandising and smug. With a toothy smile that gleams as bright as his bald head.

“Very well.” 

She thinks she's heard the last of whoever that is - where in blazes is she now, anyway? - but a blocky shape fills her vision and she's slowly guided down into a seat. Her world still spins, but feeling her _shebs_ pressed to a stool keeps her grounded.

_The kriff are you doing with yourself?_

“There.” That same someone pats her shoulder with a gloved hand, firm and familiar even through her drunken haze. Where has she heard this voice before? “I hope you're comfortable, General.” 

“Bao- _hic_ \- _Dur?_ ”

“I'm here, General.” He's laughing. Venetia can't hear him, but she knows he's stifling a smile. Suppressing the easy cheer that she likes about him. _Kark_ , how her head hurts. “You look pretty stoned for someone who insists they're okay.” 

Venetia cackles with a swing of her arm, careless enough that she smacks it against a wall. Pain spikes through her bones, her laugh flatlining to a groan. 

Pain also dashes the fog from her sight, and her surroundings come into focus. She catches sight of herself reflected in the transparisteel dividers in a huge room, and snorts, an ugly noise that lingers in her ears. 

_Smashed_ is a generous description of her appearance. She looks like someone stomped on her with a Jaeger. Just how many shots did the barkeep line up for her?

“Water,” she croaks, turning to Bao-Dur. Her throat rubs raw. 

“Here,” Bao-Dur hands over a glass from nowhere, and then some. She squints, sniffs the brown stick-like things on a plate - and turns out, it’s a chewy root. The stuff she’d used to chew on for the bitter aftertaste if she ever needed a punch to her gut. She's touched that he remembers. Otherwise, he leaves her alone to center herself over her drink, all quiet and ever-watching. 

“There you are! When Mical didn't know where you went, we all got worried.” 

New faces join her at the table before Venetia can react. Revan, Jolee, and- _kark._ Bastila too, but Venetia supposes she shouldn't be surprised. Copilots are joined at the hip, anyway. 

But why? Why does she always get an audience of people she wants to impress when she's making a fool of herself? Venetia sits a little straighter, tries to open her eyes a little bit bigger - anything to _not_ look like an inebriated spice addict. 

Hey, least it isn't Brianna. Or _Atris._

“Drinking alone, kid? Think of the tab you're gonna rack up because you can't share it with anyone.” Jolee raps his knuckles against the table loud enough that Venetia jumps in her seat. “These kids are throwing a big post-battle party and here you are spending credits on booze? _Decisions_ , Ranger.” 

“I- well, I make _kriffed_ -up decisions all the time. Thought everyone knew that already.” 

“Really, Ven?” Revan leans back with a sad smile. “After all this time, still?” 

“‘Kay. It's the- _hic -_ vicious inner critic speaking. Not _all_ . I'll re- reph- _rephrase._ Today, I binged on _kri’gee_ thinking it'd help me forget. Made the best decision I could with what I knew.”

Revan nods like a proud parent. “Exactly.” 

“Let’s go.” Bastila stands first amongst them and extends a hand to Venetia. “Even if Revan does not show it, I cannot begin to explain how excited Revan is. Adrenaline is still running through our systems.” 

“Uh...”

Bastila smiles encouragingly. “Come on, Ranger. You deserve a break. From alcohol, too.”

Venetia thinks of all the things that can possibly go wrong in an evening spent at a Shatterdome post-battle party; the awkward reunions, the temptation of free-flow of booze that makes her mouth run, the claustrophobia from being hemmed in by bodies and words and the thought of making small talk with people she doesn’t know. Doesn’t know if they’ll look at her with such scorn or acceptance and she wonders if finding out is worth the ache in her chest. 

“Force, what could go wrong, right?” Venetia staggers to her feet. Her head is on the heavier side, her body in need of a good night’s sleep, but she doesn’t need to be sober to realise someone’s still sitting down. 

She waves a haphazard hand at the LOCCENT officer to get his attention. “You’re not going?”

“Not tonight, General.” Bao-Dur gives her that smile, the one she knows when he wants some time to himself. As if on cue, he rubs the back of his neck; his tell. Only if someone’s familiar with his tics, of course.

“See you ‘round, then,” Venetia says, hiding her disappointment. Least with Bao-Dur around, she has an excuse to not talk, not like she even talks much with him. They’re both comfortable sitting in silence together.

Bao-Dur waves them off with a toothy grin. Revan practically bounds out of the room, their baggy jacket flapping along. No, Venetia’s not about to chase her former co-pilot - Bastila’s already doing that for the three of them with a bemused expression while Jolee harrumphs beside her. Eventually, Jolee strikes up some small talk with Bastila about caf cold brews that Venetia can’t follow; the words slipping out easily out of her ears as they slide in.

Of _course_ the party happens in the mess hall _._ Just like old times, only in a different Shatterdome. Immediately, her party breaks up, heading their separate ways. Revan and Bastila beeline for the dessert table, while Jolee slaps her back and mumbles something about using the refresher first, leaving Venetia all alone at the door and at a loss at what to do.

Five minutes later, she’s alone at a table near the exit, wondering why she ever bothered coming here. She massages her temples. Nothing remotely strong as _kri’gee_ available, and the caf on tap isn’t brewed by Slyssk. Sure, there's nerf as a dinner special - _kark_ if she knew where the mess officers got the meat from, because steak isn't standard Shatterdome fare - but her appetite is still lost in the sewage pipes somewhere in the sublevels below and she'll probably retch if she tries to. Everyone present isn’t someone she’s talked to before. 

Okay, well, she spots Atton and Mical by the booze taps- wait. That’s new. What _did_ they have in common? She's not about to waddle into _that._

 _Anyway,_ just because she's seen these random personnel around base, that’s not enough for her to comfortably strike up conversation. Force, why did she let a pretty girl change her mind?

_Force, why did she let a pretty girl break her heart?_

“Stars, you look like someone trashed your Jaeger.”

“Just wondering if heading back to my room and knocking out is a better idea,” Venetia sighs. Revan’s presence beside her is annoying, but they’re right. This isn’t working out for her - maybe it’s time to leave. Get some _karking_ sleep for once.

“Look, don’t feel obligated to stay. Bas just thought you’d be cheered up by nerf steak on the menu, nothing more. I was surprised when you agreed - I told Bas you’d rather choke and die than attend a Corps social event.”

“Huh. Thanks, but...” Her attention scatters as her eyes latch on to someone.

It’s Atris. Atris is here, _alone_ , with a drink in hand. _Probably needs a break, just like me._ She's out of her K-Science lab scrubs and in her old Jaeger jacket over the fatigues favoured by pilots like her, her hair in a bun and black-rimmed spectacles pushed back into her hai-

“But what? Are-” Revan realises who is it that Venetia watches, and they chuckle. They bump into her side, eliciting an annoyed huff in response. “You realise you can talk to her, right?”

“No.” Venetia’s surprised the words come out at all, the way her throat suddenly clenches and her head spins. So many problems she has, but this is the one that chooses to gatecrash her party. Stupid of her that she can't think of anything else but Atris, now that she's seen the Echani researcher. Brainless, foolish, bumbling _vac-head_. “Why would I do that?”

“To clear the air. Tell her what you’ve always yearned to tell her.”

“And what, my dearest friend, do I want to tell her?”

Revan clinks glasses with her, shit-eating grin wide on that rugged face. She's reminded of that instance when she shaved off Revan's right eyebrow after they lost a bet - she beams at the recollection. “You know as well as I do.” 

It's in that moment when Atris glances over, thoughtlessly, raising her mug to her lips. She locks gazes with Venetia; inevitable, like the unceasing grind of time. Venetia feels her chest clench, _again_ , but how can she not? Atris looks at her with such wistfulness that she's loath to believe Atris _isn't_ a few drinks away from passing out from inebriation. Really, it can't be right - Atris despises her. Venetia had made sure of that with careless words and decades of silence. 

Pathetic. Here she goes, swept away with these _feelings_ she herself buried so painstakingly years ago for a sliver of happiness. Whatever they had been, they had a history. 

Atris grounded her, gave her a direction to latch on to. She made Atris believe in a better tomorrow, of a Code that protected the innocents of the galaxy.

_You are my hero, Venetia Olic._

_So are you._

That's what Atris looks at her with, in an unguarded moment. Adoration. Flecks of the past clinging to the present in hopes each become the spark that consumes them now. Venetia screams at herself to _look away you blighted nerfhead, stop kicking up the past just to feel something-_

But Atris’s gaze shifts; she notices who Venetia sits with, and her expression shutters over. As if catching herself and her folly, enough that she shakes her head and walks away into the crowd, further away from Venetia. What she cannot have, she distances herself from it - Venetia wishes she had half of Atris’s restraint.

“Well, that was cold.” Revan huffs. “Did you see how she glared at me? What did I ever do to her?” 

“Nothing. You did nothing wrong.” Venetia blinks away the itch in her eyes, overcome by how her Corps fatigues clings to her skin and the rising urge to be rid of their weight on her frame. They make her feel so, _so_ small, and she hates feeling this way. 

In the end, she chugs down the watered-down booze on tap, _and_ tries the nerf on the grill. 

Surprisingly, she does not vomit the contents of her guts. 

=

“Why did you spare me?”

Brianna looks up from her meal to the Miraluka sitting across her. “Should I have killed you?”

“I attempted to bomb a hangar and the Jaegers inside it.”

“You sound like you wished to die.”

“I still do.” A pause, uncomfortable. “I hear what the others say about me. I agree with their sentiments.”

Atris is one of those voices, Brianna notes. _Horrified_ is the nicest way to describe how the older woman had reacted when Brianna told her about her new partnership with Visas. A (former?) _Seccer_ spy. “Let them speak their minds. It is not the Echani way to kill a defenseless opponent.” On a whim, Brianna looks up on instinct to see eyes - but is silently reminded that what she can ever see of the Miraluka's is a strip of cloth. “Should I be worried?”

“I believe you must, but I see that is not what you believe.”

“Your stance tells me what I need to know,” Brianna says. They spar in their free time; half of which, Brianna spends in awe of the Miraluka, who counters her moves with naught but her hearing. There is strength in that, even if Visas is on the wrong side of this war. _But not anymore._ “I trust you.”

Visas’s full lips only quiver - if it even does. “I hope it is not misplaced.” 

Brianna finds herself dwelling on the richness of her red lips, so intense and bright a colour against the drab gray interiors of the Shatterdome.


	7. Bitter Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It's bad, I know,” Carth offers in apology. “But the Republic's cut off our funding, leaving us with enough resources to operate for…” Carth counts off his fingers. “Three months? At most. That's how long we have to learn how to close the Breach, and do it. And make damn sure it's closed for good.”

_ SECURITY CLEARANCE: COMMAND  _

_ ENCRYPTION: TOP-LEVEL _

_ TO: Saul Karath  _

_ FROM: Jolee Bindo  _

_ SUBJECT: Cleaning House _

_ The snakes are in the grass, Marshal. I see them, but they blend well in the foliage. Worse, they are familiar to us. _

_ TO: Jolee Bindo  _

_ FROM: Saul Karath  _

_ SUBJECT: Cleaning House  _

_ My office. ASAP. _

=

It's a miracle Venetia turns up for an intel brief the next morning - not hungover, nor eyes red enough to rival a Chiss. It helps, being wrung out enough to fall asleep the moment she flops on her bed.

Normally, the mood in LOCCENT is electric. Venetia remembers the tension during the War, with multiple deployments coordinated simultaneously in a bustling LOCCENT. 

To sit here feeling sombre instead leaves her fidgeting in her seat. Her fellow pilots too, she’s relieved to see. All of them huddle around the holomap projector in the middle of LOCCENT; in seats, standing, or just leaning against the railings of the upper podium. Not just humans, but Cathars, Twi’leks, Sullustans and other non-Core races too - the Corps hasn't stopped being a multispecies effort, at least.

Unexpectedly, Visas is here too. It’s only been days since Brianna and Mira wheeled her into the medbay. If Venetia’s being honest, she admires the Miraluka’s tenacity. What’s more surprising is the sight of a white-haired Echani standing to her left-  _ oh _ . Venetia suppresses a chuckle. She chuckles at all, because it helps to ease the pang in her chest.

Whether Visas or Brianna realises it or not, there's an easy closeness to their movements; one that's common to copilots.

The room quietens when Carth continues, more in horror than attentive silence.

“K-Science has managed to pinpoint the origin vectors of the Cat Five Exogorths. This time, they have predictions on a future wave.” Carth marks out points on the map. “It’s a triple event.”

It’s silent enough to hear her racing heartbeat over the chitter of electronics. She unconsciously begins to curl her fists.

“Marshal, are you sure of this?” Someone across her speaks, folding her muscled arms.  _ Jarael _ , Venetia reminds herself. An Arkanian; skin and hair as white as chalk, strong cheekbones and a jaw and a tattoo in blue ink just below the jut of her cheek. Zayne’s copilot and constant companion, for copilots often are inseparable; a copilot  _ she has yet to find.  _

_ Fuck. _

“Impossible,” Revan adds. Outwardly, Revan is their usual, composed self, but Venetia notices the furrows under their eyes. The way their voice wavers. How Venetia's instincts tell her to hold Revan, somehow; a touch, a word, a look to reassure - and she doesn't, because she's beaten to it.

Revan swallows, and Bastila touches their elbow; Revan relaxes at her touch. And Revan speaks. “We sealed it last time.”

“At great cost,” Lonna says quietly beside Venetia, and Venetia hums in agreement. Lonna’s arm hangs in a sling from the earlier skirmish against the pair of Exogorths, and it's a stark reminder - Jaegers are metal and circuits, but are flesh and bone of the pilots within.

“How?” Venetia says, before anyone else speaks. She can’t- she can’t understand what’s arrayed in front of her, because it’s as if the Force is gripping that weight on her chest and pressing it down -  _ harder _ \- and she struggles just to breathe. “How is the Breach at Malachor still open?”

_ You suffered for nothing.  _

“That’s the thing,” Carth says. Even he looks baffled staring at the datapad in his hands, the brief he has to deliver. “In all respects, it’s closed.”

Another pilot shouts over the chatter. “Then how are the Exogorths appearing?” 

“K-Science is working on it,” Karath answers before Carth does, the durasteel in his tone shutting down further conversation. He sweeps his gaze across the crowd, eyes as opaque as durasteel; whether to intimidate or reinforce the severity of the situation, Venetia isn't sure. “How or why they are appearing is trivial. The purpose of today’s brief is a warning to all of you. The Exogorths will not cease terrorising the sector until we seal whatever Breach they come from, wherever that is.” A scowl twists his lips. “Planetary turbolaser batteries cannot do that, despite what the Republic believes. Till then, be ready.”

Both Marshals dismiss everyone by powering down the holoprojector, and everyone shuffles out noisily.

Not Venetia. She lingers at the still-warm holoprojector, hands gripping the edges to quieten her trembling. 

“Hey, you alright?” Carth stands beside her. In time, she senses another familiar presence lingering behind her. It's given away by the rustle of weight shifting between feet, the waft of citrus clinging to their frame; a scent that hangs off Ranger Shan, too.

Venetia scoffs. “Kark  _ no _ .” How in Malachor’s blasted mess can she be alright? How can she stand here with a smirk on her face and shoulders relaxed when it's just been rubbed into her face that  _ it was all for nothing _ ? 

“She's taking it better than me, definitely.” Revan touches her forearm as they stand beside her; a shaky finger, a fleeting gesture.  _ I'm here _ . “Honestly Carth, I don't know what to think about it.” 

“Rev might not be able to articulate it, but I feel what they feel too,” Bastila clarifies, appearing to Venetia's left. Her expression is pinched, as if trying to appear stoic. “It makes me want to carve out my chest, just to stop this anguish.”

“That terrible?” Revan shakes their head, their tied hair swishing along. “There you go.” 

“It's bad, I know,” Carth offers in apology. “But the Republic's cut off our funding, leaving us with enough resources to operate for…” Carth counts off his fingers. “Three months? At most. That's how long we have to learn how to close the Breach, and do it. And make damn sure it's closed for good.” 

“Additionally, we have to ensure that no other Breaches exist in the Outer Rim,” Karath adds, the grizzled Marshal joining in after lingering around Carth the entire time. Unlike Carth, Karath is the image of immaculate - from the Marshal’s peak cap, the pressed full-dress, to the shined boots that Venetia can see her reflection in. “Republic jurisdiction and protection does not extend this far, despite the Rim allowing Republic interference in their affairs. Their safety is paramount. If the Republic won't do it, _we_ will - and I can freely speak on this, only because the Council is not present. They would rather adhere to Republic directives at the cost of lives than risk the censure of  _ politicians _ in the Senate.”

Bastila nods stiffly. “Loud and clear, sir. However, allow me to clarify. A triple event of Cat Fives, and only three operational Jaegers? I am not discounting the capabilities of our Jaeger pilots, but is that adequate support to counter future Exogorth attacks?” 

Carth turns to Venetia. “Four Jaegers, no?” 

Venetia flinches as the weight of everyone’s attention falls on her, realising too late the meaning of Carth’s question. 

It's the disorientation, she admits. She’s still reeling from the briefing, with the truths she's supposed to live with now. It takes her longer to react or respond. To anything. 

She forces the words out, ones she doesn't mean. Even if lying is as natural to her as breathing, there's more to this than that. “Yeah, found a pilot already. Just gotta meet ‘em and test our neural handshake, see if it works.” 

“ _Oho._ ” Revan's grin is face-splitting, infectious enough that everyone's demeanour lifts too. “I'm looking forward to meeting this formidable fellow. Takes a certain toughness of spine to keep up with you, Ven.” 

Venetia tries not to cry out in exasperation. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

=

“They adopted me,” Mira’s voice carries over, even though she’s dangling a few feet above Venetia in her safety harness, working on a Jaeger as always. Meanwhile, Venetia watches her carry on from a safety catwalk, herself leaning on the railing with arms crossed. “While the Republic allowed the Exogorths to ravage my homeworld. Destroy everything I'd ever known.”

“Telos,” Venetia says, hushed. It's a dead world now, a graveyard for any hope of restoration to life before.

She doesn't know what to say.

A fizzle and a spark, before Mira shuts off her blowtorch. “So, what’s your deal asking me all that?”

“You don’t really venture out of the hangars, do you? Only ever see you here, working on Jaegers.”

“Not the kind to hang around with anyone. Got used to it. Maybe even prefer it that way.”

_ No one likes hanging around the Council, let’s be real _ . Venetia snorts. “Like how I do.”

“Knew you’d understand.” Mira smiles - barely a quirk of her lips - before she carries on with Jaeger maintenance, not minding the Jaeger pilot watching her work. “Besides, I’d rather work on Jaegers. They make more sense to me. And with the galaxy going to shit, I figure it’s something you need to have. To hang on to.”

Venetia hums, struck by a thought.

=

Venetia wishes for the company of a certain Echani pilot, but she hears about how she’s struck an unlikely companionship with the Miraluka. Venetia doesn’t know what to feel - she’s elated for Brianna, yet... it reminds her of paths not taken, and futures unexplored. 

Again, the persistent tuggings of  _ not-quite-right _ . 

Again, the faraway thought that  _ you can’t keep running forever. _

Her mind races, her ears buzz. Her Ranger’s quarters feel too cramped for herself, all of a sudden.

She gets up and leaves her room. 

=

She expects her usual spot in the catwalks in the hangar to be deserted. Not just at this late hour, but in a place where the hiss of steam and buzz of repairs converge to overload the senses. For her, it’s where she can fall apart in sensory disorder, like slipping below an ocean’s surface into the darkness beneath the undertow.

Tonight, that’s exactly what she needs. She isn’t just deliberating her chosen copilot. She’s bracing for another to reside in her mind; another pilot, another body she might have to bury in the graveyard in her mind.

Another  _ Alek _ . 

She hesitates, seeing someone sitting at her brooding spot. Not because she wishes it were empty, but because it's a face she hasn't seen in a while.

“Kreia. You're still up.” 

“Sleep does not come easy to me. I meditate instead.” 

“Oh.” Venetia shifts on her feet, entertains the temptation to disappear back into the maze-like corridors of the Shatterdome. She met a minder -  _ the _ minder she was supposed to report to years ago - in a chance encounter in the mess earlier this morning, and they told her brooding solves nothing. Maybe she should head to the medbay, see if that kind-faced Arkanian is still on duty at this hour. “I can leave if you want the space.”

“You did not bother me. Sit here if that is what you wish.”

She does, beside Kreia on a plasteel crate that definitely doesn’t belong here. Even with all she’s heard about this Ranger, of her classified background and lack of history circulating around Shatterdome scuttlebutt, something tells Venetia she can trust Kreia. 

Venetia thinks nothing of it. Her instincts are rarely wrong.

“You, too, are still awake. Uncommon, even for Jaeger pilots.”

“Couldn't sleep. Being back here, piloting Jaegers and fighting Exogorths… Alek visits me more often than I'd care to admit.” Venetia watches the J-Tech officers on night shift, scurrying around  _ Ryloth Star _ as they patch up the damage Rotgut inflicted on the Mark III. Wondering if she’s really about to spill her entire tragic history to another stranger who couldn’t care less about how rough her life had been.

But Venetia does it anyway, a voice at the back of her head urging her on. A voice sounding just like Alek. “I'm a murderer, Kreia. A disgrace. You know how I lost my wings. Dishonorable discharge for insubordination, just because I prioritised sealing the Breach over LOCCENT’s order to retreat. Violated the Council's edicts to never act on impulse and without clearance, too. And because I-” Venetia swipes away the wetness welling in her eyes, annoyed at herself for being affected by the past, for being so  _ weak _ . “Because I got Alek killed. I got Lennox wounded horribly enough to induce amnesia and brain damage. But my decision closed the Breach. Ended the war. That makes it hurt less, knowing that the pain was all for something. But now, K-Science says the Breach was never sealed to begin with.” 

She stops rubbing her eyes in the end, anyway. The tears come freely now, because it strikes her that this is the first time she's put it all in words. To  _ Kreia _ , of all people. She’s dragging her guilt and shame around for so long without release, because to even  _ think  _ about it makes her shake. 

“They're right,” Venetia whispers. She traces the Jaeger wings stitched above the chest pocket of her jacket. “The Council. I agreed to pilot again only because there are Exogorths left to kill. Worlds to protect. Otherwise, I'd be perfectly happy  _ wasting my life  _ on the fringes of the galaxy as a smuggler. The Republic and their Defense Corps can burn for all I care.” 

It's supposed to make her feel better. Talking is supposed to purge the unease she feels inside her. Why then, does she still feel like a rancor mauled her insides?

_ Why? _

“So prove them wrong. What the Council fails to appreciate is the sheer chaos of the moment. Who are they but hypocrites from their Shatterdomes, judging something beyond their comprehension, detached from their experience?”

“Alek’s dead. By my hand.”

“How many corpses will you shoulder before your spine shatters?” Kreia volleys right back, and Venetia’s caught by the ferrocrete in her tone. “It is not your fault. It was not wholly your decision. Death is inevitable in life, let alone a war.”

“You speak sweet words that I don’t deserve, but-” Venetia doesn’t accept it still. She lets it skitter on her skin, beyond the rolled-up sleeves of her jacket. They fall away, back into the sterile air of the Shatterdome interior - but not without leaving a ghost of its presence on her skin, her thoughts. She wants to believe, desperately so. “Thank you. For thinking I’m worth it. Even if we barely know each other.”

“Remember this, Exile. Do not apologise for the choices you make. It takes more than a murderer and a coward to follow through on them.” Then, Kreia lays a bony hand on her arm, where the jacket cuff bleeds into skin; startling Venetia both with the contact and how cold Kreia’s hand is. “There is a strength inside you that little here can claim to have. Do not forsake it.” 

Stricken as Venetia is, she knows Kreia wants to say more - but doesn't. Venetia leaves it as that. Instead, she lets what has been said swirl in her mind. 

One day, she'll wake without such thoughts haranguing her. One day, she'll realise how softer and scarce they've become. 

One day, she'll get better.

Kreia helped her see that. 


	8. Rekindling Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Really, Atton. It's not so stinky as you make it out to be.” Mical waves goodbye as he leaves. 
> 
> And Atton, Venetia be farkled, waves back with a goofy grin she hasn't seen him give anyone before.

_ [MISSION BRIEF AGENT X763: INFIL/HITRUN/EXTRACT] _

_ LOCATION: YAVIN SHATTERDOME _

_ TARGET: JAEGERS (THUNDER SMASH, REVANCHIST SPEAR, HOT PROSPECT, RYLOTH STAR) _

_ WE ALREADY HAVE THE MARK V SCHEMATICS. _

_ YOUR OBJECTIVE IS SIMPLE:  _

  * _MAKE CONTACT WITH AGENT K213_



  * _INCAPACITATE JAEGER PILOTS_


  * STEAL THE JAEGERS. DESTROY WHAT YOU CAN’T. 



_ FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION. _

=

She finds him in the mess hall playing pazaak with Mical, of all people. 

At the counter, Slyssk palms another bar of  _ uj’alayi  _ into her hands -  _ jussst take it, Ranger, we have plenty more sssince more personnel got discharged -  _ but she refuses, at first. When Mical waves her over, she accepts both bars. Who knows - maybe he'd want one?

“Hello! It’s nice to meet you outside my lab.”

“All thanks to me,” Atton declares. “Otherwise, he’d be neck deep in Exogorth guts without realising the time.  _ Someone _ had to drag him out to meet other sentients.” Atton smirks as he flips a +3, bringing his total to 18. He tosses his cards on the table and lounges back in exaggerated leisure. “ _ Pure pazaak _ .”

Venetia turns to Mical. “And he’s won how many rounds so far?”

“Every single one.” Mical doesn’t seem bothered about it. Atton shrugs with a suspicious grin when Venetia cocks a brow at him. “Republic rules, of course, since credits are better used for hand-brewed caf instead of the synthesised brew they serve. Slyssk serves the nicest, so avoid afternoons if you want a good brew. He only does evenings.”

“Thanks for the tip. And I need to talk to Atton. Alone.” 

“Oh? I mean, sure.” Mical stands without further coaxing, let alone questions. 

So  _ pliant _ , Venetia notes. Like there isn’t an ounce of suspicion in him. 

“I will be at my workstation if you’re up for pazaak again,” Mical tells Atton. “I quite enjoy our games.” 

The pilot blinks. Like he hasn’t expected Mical to offer. “Why the hell not, right? Just gotta pinch my nose or wear a breather while we’re at it, yeah?”

“Really, Atton. It's not so stinky as you make it out to be.” Mical waves goodbye as he leaves. 

And  _ Atton,  _ Venetia be farkled, waves back with a goofy grin she hasn't seen him give anyone before. 

She probably snorted too loudly, because Atton turns to her with a frown. “What?” 

Venetia chortles, shaking her head. Nope, she won't give him the satisfaction. Not until they're even.

_ Force,  _ when did she think of him as a friend?

“So, Olic. We meet again. Can't say I'm charmed to meet you, but I'm surprised. I thought you despised me.” 

“You're my copilot,” Venetia says outright. Might as well get this over and done with. Oh, and her good mood helps with not sniping back. “I choose you. Happy now?”

“Huh. You don't sound too pleased.”

“At the thought of letting a  _ sleemo _ like you inside my head? Pardon me if I'm less than delighted.” 

Atton fights the smirk off his face. Venetia's tempted to punch it away for him. 

But that's a  _ sleemo  _ move, so she rolls her eyes. “There's a war on. Much as I'd rather snort starship exhaust fumes instead, like it or not, this needs to be done. You free for a test-run later?”

Atton shakes his head in disbelief. “What?” 

“You. Me. Hangar Fifteen. Inside the conn-pod of the  _ Thunder Smash.  _ Testing for Drift compatibility.”

“Look, sister. I know that. It's just- this is all news to me, alright? Just yesterday you were glaring at me for breathing at you slightly wrong. From  _ across  _ the mess.”

“They're waiting on me to find a copilot before assaulting the Breach. Otherwise, the Corps won't proceed. Time that might risk more attacks and more deaths. But there's something you need to know.” Venetia looks away, unable to meet Atton’s brown eyes - not with the sudden heaviness in her chest. “LOCCENT won't admit it, but there's a good chance we'll die trying. You don't- you don't have to take a risk with me. Given my history. I understand if you don't want to.” 

There. She doesn't expect disclosing this, to _Atton_ no less, yet _-_

“I'm not a coward, if that's what you're saying.” 

“I-” Venetia whirls her gaze back to Atton, fists curling unconsciously- No. Picking a fight helps nobody, least of all her. She's learning to pick her battles. Atton isn't trying to be confrontational. She forces a breath. “ _ Fine _ . Be in the drivesuit room in an hour.” 

There's a devilish glint in Atton’s eyes as he answers. “Oh, I will.” 

=

_ Both hemispheres calibrated. Neural handshake steady at 96%. _

_ It's the best I've seen for a first-time connection, Rangers. _

When the  _ Thunder Smash  _ powers down, she turns to her right expecting to see his face - but the one she sees isn't a square enough of a jaw, nor a helmet streaked with baby blue on the dark gray of standard-issue drivesuits.

It's white. As white as the face within, grinning at her with a scoundrel’s smirk hollow to her eyes. 

Her heart sinks. 

It's done. Atton  _ is _ her copilot. Personal reasons aside, the Jaeger pilot in her cannot deny how silent the Drift was between them. 

She wishes for the flash of white in her mind, the presence of a sure-footed warrior by her side… but the Drift has other ideas. 

She wishes it ain't so. 

She hears him before she sees him, but chooses not to. Why should she, when she's comfortable massaging her temples with her fingers? “Of all places to sit in an empty mess, you have to sit by  _ me _ .”

“We're gonna be stuck with each other fighting giant space slugs. Aside from how I don't want to die - dunno ‘bout  _ you  _ \- I just thought you'd appreciate my attempt at camaraderie.” He shrugs. “Gotta know you sometime. Why not now?”

Atton and his sincerity. Sometimes, she can't differentiate between that and his syncopathy. “You've been inside my head. Guess from there.”

“You asked for it.” Atton plunges right in the moment Venetia feels regret flash through her veins; wishing she isn't as callous with herself as she is with her words. “Was it true that you left? Packed up and disappeared to the Outer Rim when Revan was still in a coma?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“ _ Stang _ . Revan was your  _ co-pilot.  _ Both of you had just lost a co-pilot, and you just-  _ left _ ?”

“And what about it?”

“Help me understand, because otherwise you’d just be a cow-”

Venetia lunges but Atton catches her wrist before her fist connects. The folly of Drift compatibility - synchronicity, even outside a conn-pod. K-Science calls it Ghost Drifting. Like Exogorths, she calls it a fragging mess.

Atton grins, daring her;  _ goading  _ her. “I know you yearn to touch my flawless face, beautiful, but watch it.” 

“I'm not interested in letting you charge up my boarding ramp, flyboy.” Venetia wrenches her hand from his and scrubs it on her regulation pants. “I get that you're new to this game, but do you speak of all your battles? Or are there some you wish to forget?”

Atton swallows, looking suddenly green. “Look, I did-”

“Then you understand. Don’t be a  _ sleemo _ in crossing boundaries other people have set. Not if you want your  _ flawless face _ intact.”

“Okay, okay,” Atton raises both hands in surrender. “Point taken. It’s just that I can tell you're upset about something. And I wanted to know that you can talk to me. If you wanted to. We're copilots, so we can be friends. Should be friends, ‘cause I doubt you're interested in the other kind of partnership. Neither am I.” Atton ends with that nervous chuckle of his and Venetia doubts that's all to his words - not like it's her place to ask. 

She rakes a hand through her hair instead. Atton has a point. And- 

_ You can't run forever. _

Venetia bobs her head in agreement. Alek’s right. Well, Alek’s  _ voice _ in her head. Somewhere, somehow, she still hears him. He keeps her alive. Keeps her company in her darkest moments. 

_ Heroes die young. _

Maybe they don’t. Maybe they live eternal, somewhere in the silence of the Drift.

“I’d like that,” she tells Atton, the effort of speaking akin to skinning herself with a vibroshiv.

He smiles, wider and more genuine than she’s seen him. But he ducks his gaze again, overcome by a thought; a gesture she doesn't expect from a self-assured turncoat, the scummiest of scum. “Truth is, I turned Seccer for the same reasons you abandoned the Republic.” 

“I know,” Venetia says . The pictures in her mind are vivid like freshly-pressed paintings, colours that holo can't completely capture. “I saw your memories too.” 

Atton blinks. “Oh. Forgot about that. I dunno, just that- I mean, it felt like-”

He grinds to a silence, hands flailing for words he cannot utter. A memory he cannot speak of.

“Forget it. Some things… words don't quite fit.” No, she’s not about to continue this conversation about  _ feelings _ . “Anyway, should I worry if you're gonna murder me in my sleep? You know my weaknesses. You've seen them. And you can literally cross the corridor to reach my door.” 

“Cute, Olic. This might surprise you, but that never crossed my mind. Even when we first met at the Seccer base. I hadn't been doing that for a while.” Atton turns contemplative. “Didn't want to, anymore - someone changed my mind.” He looks at her meaningfully, but turns to watch the Shatterdome personnel streaming into the mess - is it dinner already? “I mean, I’m still a pathetic pile of Exogorth guts, but maybe being here, being around people like Mi- people in this Shatterdome makes you believe it’s never too late for people like us, right? That we can still be worth something.”

“Huh. Didn’t take you for the philosophical kind.”

“Didn’t think I’d actually begin to like you, the way we met. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate your guts, but…” Atton’s smirk is lopsided. “You’re okay.”

_ It’s never too late for people like us.  _ The thought dances on the surface of her mind, skittering lightly like pebbles skipping on water.

“Thank you.” Venetia says it before she realises what drives it. And when she does, her hands shake and her chest thrums with nervous energy for an action she feels compelled to do. She hasn’t felt this certain in a while. “ _Thank_ _you_.”

Atton looks at her funny. “For what?”

Venetia’s already standing to leave. “For making me brave.”

=

_ SECURITY CLEARANCE: COMMAND  _

_ ENCRYPTION: TOP-LEVEL _

_ To: Republic High Command, LOCCENT (Yavin IV) _

_ From: Republic Strategic Information Service  _

_ SITUATION BRIEF XX-873E _

_ Seccer forces are retreating. Attacks against convoys and space stations within the Mid Rim have mostly ceased.  _

_ Troop movements in the Gordian Reach on the rise. Various cluster points identified in the sector. No attacks as of yet. We still have no answers on why Seccer intelligence is 80% accurate - too high for a decentralised resistance movement. _

_ Stay alert. _

=

It’s been weeks, but Mira’s right. 

Venetia won't ever admit that to the mechanic's face, though. It's something she tucks out of mind like the shame of her discharge, can't because that's the only way she knows to sate the void caged within her ribs. It's angry at the world or angry at herself - and she already hates herself. That bantha’s been beaten long enough. Nor does it offer answers.

She's put off this meeting for the longest time. Even Lennox has made note of it, with cheeky astrides and poorly-veiled nudging whenever Atris meets them in passing. Which is rare, since K-Science personnel rarely leave their lab; preoccupied by whatever mystery of the universe that snags their attention. So, seeing her elsewhere, besides that one time she saw her indulge at a post-battle party… they’re opportunities that she lets slip through her fingers.

There's a lot that Venetia torched when she left, and she'd left them as they were - singed ends exposed, smoking and red-hot. Festering. And she touches it, all the time, deriving perverse glee from her pain.

She takes in a deep breath as she stands at the door to K-Science, wondering if this is another dead bantha to beat. Wondering if it's worth rekindling ties scorched by wars, broken promises, and… betrayal.

_ I trusted you. _

_ So did I, once. But never again. Not after what you did.  _

Once upon a time, Atris was as close as kin. Now, Venetia wonders if she'll meet a stranger, wearing the face of someone beloved to her. Force, does it  _ sting. _

_ You broke the tie. Tipped the balance in favour of my dishonorable discharge. After all we went through together?  _

_ We are only as honorable as the rules we abide by. I cannot forsake that because of my feelings for you. _

As expected, it’s dark when she enters. Anyone in their right mind and not on night shift is asleep. She came after her routine of sparring in the Combat Room, minutes past midnight. It had been a deliberate decision - not because she’s dragging her feet, but sparring clears her head and she needs to know if the bravado Atton inspired in her isn’t just more delusional thinking on her part.

Mical’s tanks of liquid glow an eerie green. On a whim, she trails her fingers along the glass, as she walks past. Like lamp posts, they lead her to the other side of the room, a side decorated instead by holocrons and datapads along the desks and shelves. These items, meticulously arranged by date, title, and whatever metric meaningful to her alone.

As expected, it's just her and the scratching of stylus on flimsi; a quirk of Atris that Venetia found-  _ finds _ endearing. 

Venetia takes in the smell of dry acrylic. The galaxy may have moved on to tablets and datapads, but to Atris, flimsi is reliable. Flimsi is familiar. 

So was Venetia, once. 

The scratching stops. It makes the silence deafening. “Ranger Olic?” 

Venetia stuffs her fists in her bomber jacket, grinds them against the fabric. Her muscles are tense. It's not because she didn’t stretch after her training - she had. She steps from behind the shelves into view. 

Atris glances at her through her glasses, unsurprised. Vaguely annoyed, even, the way her expression scrunches with that familiar narrowing of eyes. Maybe that's why Atris continues writing, and from the look of it, more equations. “I knew it was you. From the sound of your footsteps.”

“Know me well, do you.” Venetia hefts herself up on the edge of a nearby desk, legs swinging in the air. 

“Old habits.” 

_ Old feelings.  _

“Why do you come?” Atris continues, sensing that Venetia isn't going to leave. “You made your feelings towards me crystal-clear the last time.” 

_ Get the fuck off my ship, Atris.  _

_ Ven, you need help. Your head- _

_ I only piloted a Jaeger solo. I'm not insane!  _

Venetia blinks. “Can't I? K-Science is under the jurisdiction of the Defense Corps. We're colleagues. So we need to work together.” 

“That's not what I asked, and you know that.” 

“You're one to talk about knowing what I know and what I want.”

Atris finally,  _ finally  _ puts her stylus down by the flimsi. Bobs her throat too, considering her next words carefully.

Venetia wants her to scream. 

_ Why can't you let me be? What more must you take from me? _

_ Then let me help you. _

Atris stands, the feet of her chair scraping along the floor. She doesn't lunge for Venetia, doesn't slap her nor drag her out of K-Science by the cuff of her collar. Atris only walks over to whittle the distance between them. 

This close, Venetia can see how badly Atris is trying to suppress the tremble of her lips. Out of anger, surely. 

Atris whispers; a breath that seeps right into bone. “It’s hours past lights-out. Why are you here, Venetia?” 

_ Like how you cast me out? Like how you stripped me of my wings and gave up on me? Why should I trust a snake like you? _

_ Do not test me, Venetia. _

It's easy to lie. To hop off the desk and storm out of K-Science and avoid this reckoning long overdue, like how she avoids the rest of her distress. To lash out at anything but that. 

Venetia matches Atris’s tone, but not her gaze of piercing blue. “I don't know.” 

“You cannot speak those words, or you cannot name the turmoil inside your chest?”

And just like that, Venetia begins to shake. “Yes.”

_ Why does it matter to you? Why can’t you just leave? _

_ Because we were something once. _

Atris looks at her. Finally  _ looks _ at her, as if seeing for the first time the person who’s weathered dead copilots, dishonorable discharge, and the scorn of former comrades. Appreciating the toll of bearing burdens for years that weigh heavily on her frame, her mind, her soul. 

Still.

The censure Venetia expects -  _ craves _ \- doesn’t come.

Atris sags. Drops her shoulders and dips her gaze, with a shuddering sigh that betrays her exhaustion, as if finally releasing a  _ beskar _ -tight grip over her composure, her self. She crosses the space between them and lays a hand on Venetia’s arm; a touch scorching that Venetia doesn’t lurch away from. 

Venetia has never seen Atris so defeated.

“For what it is worth, I truly am sorry.” Atris swallows. “I am sorry for allowing loyalties and ideals to come between us. I am sorry for fighting so hard to protect the wrong things. For failing to realise that there is nothing important that does not include you.”

_ Don’t. Don’t you dare say that. _

_ So tell me what it is you want, Venetia. Tell me, so I may honour your wishes.  _

White is a colour that mellows the blue in her eyes, Venetia thinks. A colour that also highlights her outwardly frigid nature. It reminds her of the snowfall in Rhen Var; after the sky soaks obsidian from soot and ash, back when the Mandalorians were the worst the Republic had to worry about. Snowfall an unbelievable shade of ivory, just like her hair. Just like the day Atris had appeared on her ship, weeks after her court-martial; travelling cloak dusted with flakes of snow.

Venetia inhales another deep breath, wiping her cheek with the back of her palm. 

It comes away clean. All she can smell now, is snow. 

“It won’t stop the hurt, but it’s something I wanted to hear in a long time,” Venetia croaks. “Something I needed to hear.”

Atris slides her hand up to curve around the angles of Venetia’s jaw, thumb stroking her cheek. A gesture so familiar Venetia’s heart aches, even if Atris’ touch is feather-light. A gesture that she sinks into, leans into, her eyes sliding shut. Her hand finds itself covering Atris’s own, before she can even conceive of the desire to.

Venetia feels tears pricking her eyes; of grief long suppressed in the darkest corners of herself. This is the closure, or the beginnings of it, that she’s chased for too long.

She pulls herself into Atris’s arms; sturdy, the fresh of mint assailing her senses. Atris lets her, curling an arm protectively around her back.

All Atris says is this, whispering into Venetia’s ear; voice more breath than sound. “I apologise it took me this long to realise. To do something about it.”

_ Then leave. I never want to see your face nor hear from you, ever again. _

_ So be it.  _

=

“Stop being all noble around her, in your big hero way. She sees right through your little act. She likes honest guys, not guys who run around being unselfish and heroic all the time.”

Mical looks up from his caf, to a not-quite-deserted mess hall he'd initially expected. Neither had he expected to deal with a red-faced pilot, raging about things that seemed to not have any discernible cause. “I thought she was the hero.”

“Well-” Atton is genuinely taken aback, but confusion morphs into righteous anger. “She  _ is.  _ And you don’t deserve her.”

“I know. What are you getting at, Atton?”

“You- She-” Atton hisses through gritted teeth. “Just stay away from her. She ain’t interested.”

“I never was, Atton. All she sought from me was companionship, and neither was I interested in changing that.” 

“Well.  _ Good. _ ”

Mical watches the emotions flash across Atton’s expression, coalescing in the tautness of his frame. He hazards a guess. “Are you… jealous?” 

“What? Why the hell would I be?”

“I just thought- nevermind then.” Mical busies himself as he stirs his caf, before reaching for a biscuit to dip in his drink. Chewing on it, he lets himself think aloud. “I suspect there is more to her visits than she discloses, but outwardly, she comes over to see what I am doing, nothing more. Half the time she doesn’t talk, only listen to me verbalise my thought process. It helps her feel grounded and safe. And when she does feel up to talking, we do have enjoyable conversations. The other day, we discussed the Corps; what it could be, what it is, and how the Seccers deserve more than the scorn the Republic piles on them. That’s all.”

There's surprise there, moreso with Mical revealing how he feels about the Seccers. But it shutters down quickly. “Nerds,” Atton grunts, looking anything but convinced. But he doesn't protest, so Mical considers the matter settled. 

Why does it matter much to Atton, anyway? 

=

The Shatterdome empties as the days pass, and Venetia finds quiet spots to decompress far more easily than usual. 

There's a feeling she can't shake as the days pass.

A feeling of being watched. A feeling of the end, pressing on her chest. 

She’s made her peace with people from her past - Atris, Lennox, Carth. The members of the Council, too. Isn’t it supposed to get better?

She dismisses both as consequences of inadequate sleep. 

Her dreams are of brimstone and fire, and she wakes often drenched in sweat; too strung out to not redirect it as anguished blows against a punching bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you get the black sails reference? it's a good show, 1000/10 will recommend.   
> very gay, very serious politicking, very on point social commentary.


	9. Great Unknowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atton shakes his head, not quite believing the subtext. “And how d'you know that?” 
> 
> Mical answers instead; shaky on his feet, wide grin on his face. “I drifted with an Exogorth brain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're reaching the end now, hope you're still with me :>

They've been training with each other for some time, Visas and Brianna, hard and long enough to be sensitised to how their bodies filled the space, navigated the air. Harmonised their bodily rhythms into a musical piece from start to end. 

Still, combat isn't solely about the invisible ties that bind dueling combatants together. Combat, too, is about the body as the vessel where combat marks its demands. 

Visas understands that.  _ Wears _ that. She does forget that others may not. 

“Your back.”

“What of it?” Visas says over her shoulder. She does not let the sigh escape her lips; she keeps it crushed, inside herself. These scars are nothing. What matters is that she survived. 

She does not want -  _ deserve _ \- such concern. 

As she says that, turning on her heel, Brianna hurries over, still in her underclothes stark against her pale skin. Her shirt is unworn, clutched in her left like a ball. This is Visas’s saviour, her mighty champion. Her well-being privileged over Brianna’s sky-high standards of personal respectability. 

Brianna does not touch her, merely demands her to meet her gaze with sheer force of will propping up her words. “Marr-  _ Visas _ , what happened to you?”

“My Master. He was… a hard teacher.” 

_ Torture.  _ It was  _ torture _ , what he inflicted on her body, her mind, her soul. These marks inscribed on her porcelain flesh are nothing,  _ nothing  _ to the festering disgust poisoning her insides. 

Brianna stares vibroblades at her, but there's a faraway look in her eyes; her expression not meant for Visas. “I will kill him.”

Her eyes- dilated from agitation, twitching from simmering emotion, yet icy-white. The flash-freeze of carbonite. Danger in the most contradictory of terms. Visas is entranced. “No.”

“What? Marr, why-”

“You are not ready. I will train you. I will guide you. But until you are ready, I will not take you to him.”

“What does it matter if I am not? Seccer or no, flesh tears as easily as bones break beneath a well-placed strike.”

“He will destroy you. And he will destroy all that is good about the galaxy.” Visas touches Brianna’s cheek, eliciting a shiver from the Echani; it confuses Visas that she inspires such reactions in others. “You are meant for more than an untimely passing.” 

It equally confuses her when others reciprocate; when Brianna reaches up to cover her hand with hers, fingertips brushing against the fabric of her blindfold, eyes blazing with unnamable emotion. “He will not touch you, ever again. I swear it.” 

Visas finds she quite likes it, warmth tingling even the ends of her deadened fingers. 

In the brief lull, she smiles, savouring what comfort is to be had in the tumultuous few weeks before the inevitable assault on the Breach. 

=

_ [Flimsi snuck into a pocket of PGDC fatigues, handwritten and unsigned] _

_ Brianna, _

_ I know.  _

_ Watching you two, not just when sparring, is something else. You're both a good fit for each other. It's probably what you've been waiting for. _

_ See you round the Shatterdome. Or even better - in a Jaeger, among the stars. _

=

Even if she closes her eyes, sinks herself into the softness of skin and cloth, Venetia can't claw down the awareness that they're years older than they were. That they're marred by more than time and distance. It presents itself in the hesitance before every word she speaks, the fingers that curl around her chopped brown hair with the care of a scientist with sheafs of equations between thumb and forefinger. 

Even if this is like old times, Venetia finding her way to Atris’s bed at night for snatches of comfort and stolen privacy, this is not the Dantooine Shatterdome. This is not the passion of a lover's tryst, like those of yesteryear.

This is comfort sought, and comfort given. She does not expect Atris to open her door, to step aside, to let her in - yet, here they are. 

And maybe, that is what helps Venetia pretend, just for a while longer. That the silence that hangs over them isn't the awkwardness of people fumbling to make connections.

“Your strands - they are frizzy to my fingers. Have you been washing your hair?” 

“Not as much as I should.” Venetia's eyes flutter open to see Atris gazing at her hair with a quirk of her lips, pinched in concentration. Her fingers continue fiddling with Venetia's strands; as if the sheer effort of concentration can undo the damage to Venetia's hair. “You noticed.”

“I did.” 

Maybe Atris had blushed, then, in answering. Venetia can only wonder in the dark, sleep fogging the edges of her consciousness. Atris had let her hair loose, the strands reaching just past her shoulders - ruffled, sticking up in places. Clearly, Venetia had woken her up, in knocking on her door this late. The strands are close enough to touch, if only Venetia would reach out to grasp it, and-  _ stop it _ . 

Lying on the bed, her head on Atris’s lap, it summons feelings from a forgotten  before ; sensations and memories that leave her chest tight and her throat clammy, because  _ where did it all go wrong? _

“Why didn't you say something?” 

“The same reason you didn't.” Atris stops her touches, withdraws her hand; Venetia shivers from the loss of warmth, missing it so. “What was there to say?”

_ Then leave. I never want to see your face nor hear from you, ever again.  _ Atris had complied. Respected that, even as she'd made it clear she would rather do anything but that. 

“Something. Anything.”  _ Just talk to me, Atris. Tell me everything will be okay. Tell me that I can stop running, because I can run into the safe embrace of your arms.  _ “But who am I to say?” Venetia sits up and moves to sit beside Atris, knees bumping, with her back against the headrest. It doesn't feel right, resting on Atris’s lap now that words come between them. “I told you to space yourself when all you wanted was to help.” 

“I deserved it.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I understood, Ris, even if I wished you didn’t. It wouldn’t have made any  _ karking _ difference, being the second dissenting voice against the rest of the Council, but it would’ve mattered to me.” Venetia swallows, overcome by how hard it suddenly is to breathe. “It would have. Because at least I’d know someone still believed in me _. _ ”

If Atris notices how her nickname had rolled off Venetia’s tongue like water, she doesn’t show it. Not even a stiffening of her spine, nor an intake of breath. All is quiet in her quarters, the occasional hiss of pipes filling the filtered air too thin to be called fresh. 

“What I said the other night - I meant it. I do not ask for your forgiveness, for I know I am beneath yours. I will not beg for something that is not mine to take.” 

_ It is only mine to give _ , Venetia muses. “Why did you wait so long to tell me?

Atris pauses. There’s something unspoken, something she restrains herself from speaking.  _ I could ask the same of you.  _ “I thought I was nothing to you. I thought you had burned out whatever you-  _ we- _ once shared. What I did to you, it was easy to hate me. It has been-- _ decades _ , Ven. Maybe you would have moved on. Perhaps found happiness outside the Corps.” 

_ I read your file. I kept track of you in the holofeeds _ .  _ I needed to know you were safe, even if you refused to let me. Yet, I did not want to have my heart broken, again.  _

“If being exiled taught me anything, it’s this. Nothing made sense until I left. The Code was like a blanket pressed hard on my face. I was choking from what it demanded, what it  _ allowed _ to happen, but you?” 

Venetia lays a hand on Atris’s lap. It’s like watching an iriaz in headlights; Atris stiffening as she realises the touch, realises what it is for it to be extended so freely. 

She is hesitant, at first; left hand jerkily moving to cover Venetia’s. Testing how it feels to wrap her bare fingers on someone else’s, steady warmth in the night-time chill. 

Then, she grasps it, firmly enough that Venetia feels her bones clench. Atris clutches it surely enough that Venetia shifts to hold Atris’s hand, too. The weight of a hand comforting, like the constant burr of hyperdrive engines. 

“You make sense,” Venetia declares to their linked hands, thumb stroking Atris’s pale skin. “You keep me grounded. I miss that.” 

Snatches of conversation play in her head; livid words, parting shots, blame, shame,  _ guilt.  _

_ You looked so right, with so much conviction that I began to doubt myself, my ideals, my rules. I started to question the truths that I had often tried impressing on you. For a fleeting moment, I began to wonder - maybe, the Code was truly flawed as you painted it to be. Then, you fell. _

_ Atris, I had no one to hold on to. _

She hears the blankets rustle, a bit, shifting as Atris does. She does not expect Atris to nestle against her, head on her shoulder, with a sigh that tickles the bare skin of her arm.

This feels… right. 

“As you did, for me.” Atris says it plainly, Venetia hears. She says it in that faint voice that's more whisper than the strident tones of a K-Science officer. It reminds her of a time before Malachor, before the trial, before everything fell apart between them. 

Venetia rests her head on Atris’s with a hum.

They work on being friends, first. 

=

They fight dirty. 

Maybe it's expected from survivors. From people familiar with bitter defeat; of having to kiss dust with a boot upon their back. 

Atton used to be Republic. Defense Corps. A Defense Corps Strike Trooper. But the Seccers were an answer to the questions the Republic couldn't answer, so that's why he left. To help the organisation that exposed the hypocrisy of the Republic for what it was - rotten at the core, and hypocritical in its control over the galaxy. And then, an interrogation of a Jaeger pilot went horribly wrong. 

Venetia used to be Republic. Defense Corps. A Jaeger pilot. But the Republic and the Corps could not answer what she asked of them, and she was cast out. So that's why she cast  _ herself _ out. To lose herself in the everyday of the galaxy, be nothing -  _ nobody _ \- seeing the galaxy from those eyes. Just to expose the hypocrisy of the Republic for what it was - rotten at the core, and hypocritical in its control over the galaxy. And then, the Exogorths returned.

That's how they kill Hammerhead with turbolasers and fists and an asteroid rammed down its throat. Other Jaeger crews do it cleanly - by decapitating, by blasting holes, by driving enhanced vibroweapons into Exogorth flesh. Those are methods for more elegant fighters, believing in the mythologies of Jaeger piloting. Romanticising the beauty of killing space slugs the size of capital cities. 

But that's not them. 

They fight not because they can. Not because they want to. 

They fight because they must. 

And that's the thought lingering in the Drift between them; disillusioned fighters finding direction in common purpose.

_ Get it done. Whatever and however it takes. _

Others call it fighting dirty, but they don't understand. 

It’s not just Exogorths that Atton and Venetia fight. 

It’s themselves, too. 

They take down a Cat Five on their own, and fend off another pair of Exogorths manifesting near Korriban, bailing the  _ Hot Prospect  _ out from facing damage beyond the bottom half of their torso. Killing Exogorths is a perfect excuse for a post-battle celebration back at the Shatterdome, but when they walk back into LOCCENT, they know why it isn't to be.

“The Exogorths are not what we should be worried about,” Carth announces, his face pale. “Who or what controlling them is.” 

Atton folds his arms over his chest, forearm muscles flexing. “Does that matter if they’re dead?” 

“It might mean we’re wasting our time and effort,” Venetia completes Carth’s unsaid thought. “Who should we be looking at, then?”

“Atris discovered something odd about Exogorth spawns. According to her calculations, they don't manifest any further than five parsecs of the Breach. Nor do they wander further than that from where they manifest. Mical, meanwhile, found modified DNA in certain Exogorth samples - specifically in those Atris identified as anomalies. These DNA aren't... recognisable in existing galactic databases.”

“What, they're from another galaxy? Another cluster yet unknown to us?” Venetia scoffs at her wisecrack, only for her grin to fade the longer Carth remains silent. “You can't be serious.”

Atton leans into Venetia's space. “He seems dead serious, Ven.” 

“We don't have any other answers.” 

“I don't know, maybe someone  _ in this galaxy  _ found a way to leash Exogorths to their will? Force, Carth. I'm not saying you're wrong, just that the galaxy's messed up enough that anything could be possible.” 

“I hope you're right.” Carth doesn't smile. “Because otherwise, we're  _ farkled _ .”

=

_ [INTERCEPTED TRANSMISSION FROM SECCER DEEP SPACE FREQUENCY] _

_ Shatterpoint in motion, all units on standby. _

_ Shatterpoint in motion, all units on standby. _

_ Shatterpoint in motion, all units on standby. _

=

Mical narrates a similar story when Venetia and Atton pop by K-Science.

(Kreia, unsurprisingly, locks herself inside her office the moment Atton walks in behind Venetia.)

“I would have overlooked it, if not for Atris’s insistence that we can never be too careful around Exogorths. After all, sometimes readings are flawed and biological specimens have their own magic. You never know.” 

“History and science  _ do not _ -” Atris hollers from her corner of the lab “-have flaws. They are more reliable. They have  _ rules. _ ”

Mical smiles, boyish grin charming and disarming - if one can disregard the purplish discolouration of his face; as if someone used his face as a punching bag. “Yeah. However, I fail to wrap my head around the idea. Who or what would be eager to control such destructive creatures? At least forces from the Unknown Regions are more plausible than from within the galaxy. The both of you know about the Katarr incident, yes? Those Exogorths were deployed far from Malachor, just far enough that deep-range scanners failed to pick up on them until too late.”

“In other words, they did not spawn nor behave organically.” Atris leans on the wall beside one tank of Exogorth bits as high as the lab, the greenish glow of the liquid casting her favoured white scrubs in an otherworldly neon. “This leads us to the next question. Who, or what then, is controlling how the Exogorths are behaving?” Atris quirks her lips; slanting upward in a facsimile of a smile - which is something, since she rarely smiles. Let alone at  _ her _ . It makes Venetia aflutter inside; a warmth she's missed. She’ll never get used to this rekindled familiarity between them. “You may not like the answers you seek. So do we.” 

Atton shakes his head, not quite believing the subtext. “And how d'you know that?” 

Mical answers instead; shaky on his feet, wide grin on his face. “I drifted with an Exogorth brain.” 

That's the thing about tense silences, Venetia muses. She can't- she just itches to smash it, if only to be rid of the yawning emptiness that grates like nails on her skin. 

If Atton is speechless, face oddly blank unlike his usual pazaak face, then she will - however unwillingly - speak for the both of them.  _ What does it take before she can catch a break?  _

Venetia’s laugh is breathless. “ _ Karking  _ hell, Mical. Never let me call you a soft-bellied dewback ever again.” 

=

_ DECRYPTED TRANSMISSION  _

_ // [AUTO-DELETE: 60 SECONDS] _

_ LISTEN WELL, AND LISTEN GOOD.  _

_ DO NOT THINK ME BLIND TO YOUR ACTIONS.  _

_ I BELIEVE YOU ARE AWARE OF WHAT HAPPENS TO THOSE WHO STAND IN MY WAY. _

_ DO NOT MAKE ME DOUBT YOUR COMMITMENT.  _

=

“Are you upset with me?” 

Atton ignores Mical, wishing that the scientist would stop trailing after him like a lost kinrath pup - it looks ridiculous, being in full view of anyone still in the lab. Venetia is long gone, after mumbling something about training but Atton knows it’s a hell lot less embarrassing to say she’s going to linger around Atris or Kreia, far away from him and the sudden pink bantha in the room. 

Atton also thinks of storming off away from Mical, to somewhere with air - hell, where can one find fresh air in an underground supercomplex anyway? - but ends up turning on his heel. “You're a crazy barve.”

“What did I do again?”

“Can you stop risking your life for the Defense Corps and think of  _ yourself _ for once?”

“No, I cannot. This is my job.” Mical scrunches his forehead, that  _ damnably  _ endearing scrunch that sets Atton’s insides aflutter. Even if purple mottles that skin, and Mical is clueless as ever. “Atton, what brought this on?” 

“You're not listening. Mical, you could've died.” 

“Absolutely. Turns out, I did not - Drift only knows why. A bit of a headache, but that is a small price to pay for intelligence against the Exogorths…” he trails off, realisation dawning. “You are concerned about me. About my safety.” 

Atton says nothing, just a  _ duh _ with his face and his signature scowl. His five o’clock shadow is faint but striking in the moment; black scruff stark against his fair skin. 

_ How would it feel under my fingers?  _ Mical wonders, but immediately shuts down the thought. Strange - it's a sudden thought, but it isn't out of place. He  _ is  _ curious. “I appreciate it immensely. However, trust me to fulfill my duties responsibly and competently. I am a professional, after all.”

“Okay.” Atton looks the equivalent of someone chewing on transparisteel shards. “At least let me know before you do  _ barvy  _ things like this? Someone needs to collect your body.” 

“You're very chipper about it. I love that about you.” 

Even before Mical clasps Atton’s elbow, the pilot flushes laserfire red. After, though - Mical’s unsure of a colour beyond that. Vermillion, maybe?

“Atton? I’m-  _ oh. _ ” Of all things, Venetia appears, Atris trailing not far behind. Her eyes dart between Atton’s flaming face and Mical’s hand on Atton’s elbow, and she  _ grins.  _ “See you later then,” she waves at Atton on her way out, and he does nothing but wiggle his head, just barely.

Mical takes his hand back. Venetia doesn't  _ wave _ . This is uncharacteristic behaviour from the normally-morose pilot, but that escapes Mical’s attention to something far more hair-raising. 

Atris looks pleased. At  _ them _ .

=

K-Science may be interested in the  _ why,  _ but J-Tech and LOCCENT’s way of doing things is more to Venetia's drift.

Seal the Breach, stop the Exogorths - at least, those spawning  _ within _ their galaxy. Pulverise them where necessary. One month here and she's already with three Exogorth kills to her name. Therefore, results. A sense of control. That gives her security.

With two Jaegers down and three left operational, they can't put off sealing the Breach any longer. 

“Given its swiftness,  _ Righteous Fury  _ will run defense. Both the  _ Thunder Smash  _ and the  _ Revanchist Spear  _ will carry baradium warheads and deliver them beyond the Breach. Today, we cancel the apocalypse!” 

LOCCENT erupts with a roar at Marshal Karath’s orders, but Venetia feels the Shatterdome shudder along. She shivers in anticipation.  _ This  _ is a feeling of years long past; a feeling she lives for. A feeling once felt in the lead-up to Malachor V. 

She returns to whence it began. 

=

Revan cuts a forlorn figure in the frenzy of a hangar moments before a -  _ the  _ \- Jaeger operation. They sit perched on a pile of crates; helmet resting on their knees, hands on the helmet, and a planet’s worth of mass bearing down on their shoulders. Glassy-eyed, lost in thought, and a fist clasping the edge of a necklace between gloved fingers.   


She knows what's in that hand, and refuses to think about it. “I know that look.”

Revan looks to her at the sound of her voice. A smile crosses their tight lips, crinkling an otherwise pensive expression of hard edges and hard lines. The look of someone who's seen it all before. “Not a pretty look, I’d wager.” 

“Like a sack of bantha shit, yes. Even if your hair's tied back neatly.”

Revan barks out a laugh. “I keep forgetting how eloquent you are, Ven. It’s nice to be reminded. It somehow keeps Alek alive, a while longer.”

“We return to whence it began.” Venetia scoffs, rolling her eyes. Hefts her drivesuit helmet within her grasp, so it fits snugly around the curve of her arms and her chest. “ _ Kriffing  _ poetic. Bet the Council would love the irony, seeing how they jack off to philosophy.”

“I doubt they actually care. As you say, maybe they're too busy jacking off or sucking up to Republic politicians to notice.”

“ _ Kark _ , Len. Got a real dirty mouth on you, eh? 

Revan looks her straight in the eye, stops fiddling with their hands. “I'm scared, Ven. Are you?”

Venetia isn't a stranger to emotion. Anger, sadness, euphoria, surprise. They keep her going. Give her a reason to wake every morning. She doesn't know what to do with fear, though. The one she masks with other emotions. The one lurking beneath all. 

“Rangers?”

“Bao-Dur,” Revan greets with their usually goofy grin; as if they hadn't just been wracked by fear. “Far from home, I see.” 

“My presence is not required in LOCCENT yet, so I decided to come by - check on the Jaegers, and their pilots. The Shadow Generator needs to be calibrated properly, given the analog interface of the  _ Smash  _ to the digital interface of the  _ Spear _ .” 

But that’s not what he wanted to say. Venetia can tell, the way Bao-Dur shifts on his feet, mechanical arm sparking in the air. 

He says what is on his mind. “It comes to this again. Malachor calls to us, still.” 

“It does,” Venetia echoes, her voice barely catching in the air. “As it always has.”

She isn't here. Not completely, the way her thoughts swirl between realities and timeframes; of nowhere and nowhen's. Thinking of the past again, when it’s dead and done. But she has to - otherwise, all this would be meaningless. Alek’s death would be meaningless - but she won’t make it so.

Bao-Dur nods at Revan, at the fist clasped at their clavicle. “After all this time?”

“Always. It's the only thing left of him, so of course I'm keeping it safe.” Revan glances at Venetia, then pats her arm, shaking the glossy look from her eyes. “For the both of us.” 

That's when it slips free from Revan's grasp with a clink. The holotag. PGDC-issue. It hangs together beside Revan's own - and Venetia's. Her old one, she exhales suddenly. The one issued before her discharge, and seized after.

Three holotags strung together in a chain, worn by the last pilot standing. How easy it is to snap the chain, to separate the holotags as before.

“I'm scared too,” Venetia finally responds, tearing her gaze away from the holotags around Revan's neck. Feels the gnawing in her chest and the lump in her throat, finally, enough that she fiddles with the collar of her drivesuit. 

It doesn't work, but she does anyway. 

Revan looks at her, her fidgeting and her disquiet. They touch her arm and leave it there. “I know.”

=

“Remember what we've been doing during training. How to breathe, to time, to read the space slugs before they strike. And Visas, that means trusting yourself and not holding back.” Visas startles from Venetia's sudden attention on her, but Venetia isn't sorry for that. “Your old master is a sorry sack of bantha crap, and you're more capable than you think you are.”

“Venetia.” Brianna appears in full drivesuit armour, helmet cradled close to her side with her arm. She grips Venetia's shoulder, snow-white irises boring into Venetia's. “We will manage.  _ You _ have instructed us well.”

From across the drivesuit room, Visas nods her agreement, mysterious half-smile on her lips. Venetia will probably not get used to how this Miraluka is  _ blind -  _ strip of cloth over blackened cavities, seeing instead through the Drift that binds beyond the cramped confines of a conn-pod.

"Huh, funny. Turns out I need that reminder, too.” Venetia pats Brianna’s shoulder with a grin, and curls her gloved fingers along the curve of her pauldron. “I did teach you well. Visas?” Venetia beckons with a head-tilt, and Visas glides over, graceful even in her clanky drivesuit of white with red highlights. 

Visas hugs the hardest of the three, even more than Venetia - something that leaves the oldest pilot of the three still holding both their arms as they break apart. 

“Be well, my mentor.” The way Brianna squares her shoulders, plants her feet firmly on the floor... Venetia believes her. She believes that this time, it will be different. They will all make it out - alive. 

“Ranger,” Visas murmurs, catching Venetia’s attention as Brianna eases from her kinda-hug. But the Miraluka glances past her, beyond her shoulder, and only now does Venetia feel the slightest prickle of eyes on her back. 

Bemused, Venetia looks over her shoulder an-

“Atris,” Venetia says out, breathless all of a sudden. She hadn’t heard the door hiss open. 

Atris steps back into the corridor, contrite, her cheeks awfully rosy. “I apologise for intruding. I- I shall wait outside.”

“Oh, n-no, I’m almost done here, anyway…” Venetia trails off to a door closing shut in her face, blinking at Atris hauling jets, just like that. She laughs to herself - but it then bugs her, hearing only her voice filling the room.

Turning back, she finds--  _ kark _ , not just either, but  _ both  _ Brianna and Visas with smiles stretching ridiculously wide on their faces. 

“What?”

“Nothing.” Brianna’s smile does not waver, and neither does Visas’s.  _ Kriffing  _ unsettling, if Venetia's being honest - she feels sweat drip down her back, feels her shoulders rise in tension, body preparing to face another threat. She doesn't like scrutiny. At all. Even if those she faces are people she's sparred with enough to read their movements with a passing glance; Visas, precise and measured strokes, to Brianna, bruising and direct blows. 

Visas taps Brianna’s wrist with a finger, leaning in, chin to ear, to chide her. “You should tell her.” 

“Tell me  _ what _ , Brianna? No, wait. Do I even want to hear it?” 

They are about to assault the Breach. Atris is waiting outside. She promised Atton her detour here to see Brianna and Visas to their conn-pod would be quick - he'd wanted to run some things with her before they lower themselves into the  _ Thunder Smash. _

Yet, Venetia takes a step forward. 

Brianna obliges. “Atris. She looks different, now. There is a glow to her countenance that I have not seen before. Before you arrived at the Shatterdome.” 

Venetia simply gapes _.  _

Visas puts a delicate finger under Venetia's chin; pushes that up to close Venetia's mouth. Venetia finds herself drawn to the crimson cloth around the Miraluka’s eyes and notices, for the first time, the intricate stitching of gold thread within the folds. “There is a sadness to her, regret that lingers in the Drift; echoes of something unresolved swirling around her when I sense her. That remains, but it is different, now. I sense your presence intertwined with hers, moreso than before.” Visas draws her finger away, and it feels like the world shifts. “It is a sensing that mirrors yours.” 

Venetia's cheeks are definitely burning now. _ Kriffing Miraluka and their Drift Sight, cryptic and unsettling and karking-- _

“Go.” Brianna cocks her head towards the door. “You, of all people, deserve to be happy.”

Venetia's ears are ringing. Her fingers - she feels them tingle, even the tips. It's the  _ farkled _ tension, as always, but this time, it doesn't lock her limbs. She's lighter than she remembers herself being. 

“Okay.  _ Okay. _ ” Venetia instinctively stuffs her hands into the nearest pockets, only to flop them uselessly by her greaves. Sheepish, she clears her throat, then sneaks a glance at the other two pilots. “See you amongst the stars.” 

Venetia  _ bolts _ . About-faces on her feet and launches herself at the door release. When the doors hiss open, though, she sucks in a breath to ease her hammering pulse; willing her body to quieten because it's just  _ Atris  _ she's meeting and they're okay now. Still haunted by the pain of what they inflicted on each other for innumerable reasons, but now’s different. 

She finds the snow-haired woman pacing outside, everything about her screaming  _ immaculate. _ On the cusp of a galaxy-deciding skirmish, how in Corellia’s nine  _ hells _ does Atris have perfectly-uncreased fatigues and not a single hair askew from her military-standard bun? She even sticks her glasses in her hair. 

“Hey,” Venetia says, and Atris halts. 

“Hello.” A beat. The vein above Atris’s eye pulses, noticeable blue on her fair skin. “Shall I walk you back?”

_ Oh.  _ Of all things to happen, Venetia didn't think of this. “Sure.” 

That they do. Venetia's torn; goofy grin on her face, but swirling confusion in her mind where Atris cannot see. It's a reversal - normally, it isn't Atris who approaches her. Isn't the braver of both to  _ dare _ ; to claw past regulations and boundaries in search of what's truly important. 

Venetia doesn't realise it at first, but when she notices how they've drifted closer together in a relatively wide corridor, she leaves it be. She doesn't chafe at the whittling distance separating them. 

“You care for them. For Brianna and the Miraluka.”

“Brianna and Visas, yeah. They're- they wanted help with drills and I obliged when they asked if I could train them.”

“I had forgotten what an honour it is to see you nurture the younglings.” Atris turns to her with a smile that makes Venetia warm all over. “I missed how inspiring it is to simply watch you.” 

“Well,  _ yeah _ . It's nothing special, you know that. That's how I do things. Turns out people eat that shit right up.” 

“Own it, Venetia. It is through your efforts and talent that people flock to you as they do. Now, and before.”

“ _ Kark _ , aren't you a sweet-talker with your honeyed words.” Venetia playfully bumps shoulders with Atris; hard enough to just shake her footing. “Wanna tell me why you appeared out of the blue today like a lost bantha? Colour me  _ farkled _ , but it seemed like you were stalking me.”

“You certainly have an inflated sense of yourself.”

“Oh, come on. I know what you're doing,” Venetia volleys right back with a grin. This is a game they used to play; sometimes with words, usually with fists on the sparring mat. How they weren't copilots, only the Drift knew - but maybe, with all that's happened, it's- mercy. “You're skirting around what you're trying to say - there's that tension to your jaw. Look, I can  _ kriffing _ take it. Smuggler's fortitude.” 

Huffing, Atris relents. “I simply wished to see you before you left.” 

“That's sweet. Never thought you'd be into gestures like this.” 

It's a lie. Atris isn't the frigid bag of Exogorth dung that people make her out to be. Venetia knows that. That isn’t the woman she fell for. 

Atris glances at her; eyes darting to her without turning her head. And just like that, she looks away and continues walking, leaving Venetia scrambling to understand what that exchange meant. The way they look into each other’s eyes says it all - but  _ what _ ?

It comes as a nonchalant reply. “It is what I should’ve done before.”

Venetia bites her lip. “I'm sorry.” 

Atris stops, turning to look at her. Despite everything, her glasses remain perched in her hair. “You have nothing to apologise for.” 

“No.” Venetia crosses the distance between them, locks her arms firmly by her sides; does  _ not  _ allow them to reach for Atris.  _ Kark  _ if they’re in the middle of a junction, four directions exposed. “I do. And I need you to know before it's too late. I'm sorry for being so mired in my grief to see past it. You were trying to help. Had been trying to reach out and make amends, ever since the trial. I was just a  _ kriffing _ vac-head who’d gouged out my own eyes and refused to see what was right in front of me.”

“You were always the best of us.” Atris does not beam; her smile is too wistful, too brittle to be born of simple happiness. Again, something lurks beneath her countenance, and Venetia can’t decipher Atris’s doublespeak. Neither can she handle the self-flagellation that Atris exudes - she deserves none of that. She deserves a life free of guilt and pain and everything else that haunts her dreams. 

How did years of finely-distilled hate distill into devotion, Venetia doesn’t stop to ponder, but _who_ _kriffing cares_ as Venetia says _fuck all_ and kisses Atris.

Sensations overwhelm her - the softness of Atris’s lips, the hardness of her jaw to her gloved fingertips, the stiffness of her fallen glasses pressing into her face. The minty fresh toothpaste she uses, a freshness that she's come to associate with the Echani.

Then, the mounting realisation that she's being presumptuous to  _ assume- _

Atris locks her arms around Venetia’s neck; herself leaning into the kiss, pulling Venetia closer as she tilts her h- 

Venetia yanks herself away to see disappointment flash across Atris’s face. 

“Atris, I-”  _ There is a war on. I'm assaulting the Breach in less than an hour. I might not survive this. Why are you so selfish?  _ “Atris, I'm s-”

Atris shushes her with two fingers on her lips; a touch that  _ oh-so-burns _ , Venetia shudders from the contact. Feels her heart in her ears, thudding like Jaeger footsteps along the earth. How she yearns to feel those fingers  _ elsewhere. _ Fear and fascination are but two sides of the same credit chit.

And, eyes blazing as white as Tatooine’s scorched sands, Atris kisses her again. 

Venetia is caught off-guard -  _ doesn't Atris care that we're in full view of anyone? _ Still, whatever noise of surprise she makes stifles as Atris presses her lips to hers. Clearly  _ karking  _ not, then. Atris slides her hands up to cup Venetia's jaw, fingers digging into bone - pressure, pain,  _ pleasure _ \- and suddenly she's gone, mouth trailing along Venetia's jaw, neck, and  _ neck _ , Venetia gasps, as Atris sucks on the sensitive spot inches below her ear. Sucks -  _ and nibbles!  _ \- hard enough to scrape teeth against skin. 

Atris pulls back before Venetia parses the fact that Atris  _ kissed her back,  _ and that's why she just stares at Atris in a daze.

“So  _ this _ was this your intention all along?” When Atris nods, smirking, Venetia snorts through her nose; but the humour bubbles from the throat as she begins laughing, incredulous; as if her very soul can just float away, untethered. “You could’ve just asked.”

“It is not my place to ask.”

“You don't have to, now.” Venetia carefully, daintily takes off Atris’s glasses; now slightly askew from their fooling around, with a hand and hooks it on the back pocket of her pants. She takes her hand and starts tugging her into a side-room - again, how  _ ridiculous  _ that her gauntlets dwarf Atris’s hands, because she can't feel her through the beskar and the synthweave. Venetia has half a mind to take it off, but there's no time; not nearly enough when it comes to them,  _ never.  _

And of all  _ kriffing  _ things to happen, her comlink buzzes. 

Venetia groans. She drops her hand to silence it, but Atris stops her with a hand to wrist. 

“It is time, Ven. I will not hold you back from what needs to be done.” 

“Yeah, doesn't mean I wanna answer him  _ now _ .” She frames Atris’s face with both her hands, unwilling to tear her gaze away from those white irises; it's been too long since she remembers losing herself in their -  _ her  _ \- intensity. 

This will not be her last time. “I'll come back.  _ Kriffing  _ space slugs won't stop me.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep.”

Venetia brushes Atris’s cheek with a thumb. “I don't.” 

Venetia thinks she sees the shadow of  _ something  _ flicker across Atris’s expression; she knows her enough when something troubles her, but it disappears equally quickly.

So Venetia lets it go, float away like a rock in the vast expanse of space.

They hold hands the entire walk back; not palm to palm, just fingers dangling lazily off another. It's not the same with gauntlets on, but Atris’s presence is enough. If they chance upon anyone on their way back to Venetia's own drivesuit room, they overlook it entirely. 

“Where were you? I thought you said you'd--  _ oh. _ ” Atton clangs to a stop, his booted feet banging against the metal floors. A shit-eating grin spreads across his features as his eyes ping back and forth across parts of Venetia, before finally latching on that particular spot on her neck where Atris had- 

“Don’t you even  _ think  _ about it.” Venetia glares back, rubbing that spot with her fingers as if it can erase the incriminating mark there. How did it even  _ karking _ leave...

Atton shrugs and walks away, back to the rack of blasters along the wall. “Sure, Ven. If I knew, I wouldn't have pinged you.” 

Sure, she wrinkles her forehead in reproach, but she has a goofy smile on her face. Even if she’s still tense from what is about to come, Atris was more than a welcome distraction.

Atris is another reason to stay. 

=

Malachor is space debris in the dark maw of space, and Atton senses her discomfort through the Drift, even before she feels it.

_ Hey, you okay?  _

She turns to him and meets his gaze through the yellow tint of their helmets, trying not to think of how the dark of space is swallowing them whole.  _ It'll pass.  _

“How's it going,  _ Smash _ ? Last reported location of the Breach is five klicks from your location.”

“Doing okay, LOCCENT. Still no sign of space slugs. Visibility sucks, but we've got the  _ Spear _ and  _ Fury  _ on our sensors,” Atton answers Carth over comms, when Ven nods her go-ahead to his raised brows.

_ Thanks.  _

Atton cocks his head, good-natured grin plastered on his face.  _ Anytime, partner. _

“ I don't mean to be a downer,” Bastila crackles over comms, “But this is unsettling.” 

“I'd like to think I'm a fun, easy-going _barve,_ but Bastila's right. Where are the Exogorths?” 

“ _ Spear _ , cut the idle chit-chat. Eyes on your scanners. LOCCENT can't always detect lifeforms this far out.”

“ _ Fury  _ to LOCCENT, we have a visual on Exogorths.” Ranger Ban, Venetia recalls. The Twi’lek with a soothingly silky voice, who she hasn't formally met. “Time to roll.”

=

Atris’s predictions are accurate. (When are they  _ not _ , Venetia reflects with pride blooming in her chest.) Three Cat Fives meet them at the Breach; a rupture in the dark matter of space, a tear in the fabric of reality that Malachor’s messed-up grav fields keep open. Their job today is to seal it, but not before vaping whatever’s on the other side of it. They don't know what exists on the other side - that's precisely why they're destroying as much as they can, along the way. 

It's a straightforward skirmish. One Jaeger for each Exogorth. With their respective upgrades, they're evenly matched. 

That's until _two_ more Cat Fives emerge from the Breach. 

“Emperor's black bones…” is what Revan whistles over the common comm channel, over the usual soundtrack of battle. It's probably the only thought ringing in their heads as they watch three Cat Fives descend on the  _ Fury _ with rows of saw-like teeth bared.

Sure, they manage to take the Exogorths out: the  _ Spear _ decapitating one with its twin swords, and the  _ Smash  _ cracking one's head open with fist connecting with bone, but not before destroying one-half of the  _ Fury’s _ arms and a leg. 

“ _ Fury  _ to LOCCENT, preparing for hyperspace jump back to Y-4,” Another voice sounds; catlike, and unfamiliar to Venetia. “Weapons systems in the red, mobility compromised. Ranger Ban is incapacitated. I repeat, Ranger Ban is incapacitated. Request medevac on arrival.”

“Granted,” LOCCENT radios back. It's Carth, worry clear in his tone. “Get home safe.  _ Smash _ and  _ Spear _ , status?”

The remaining two Exogorths are circling the Breach; snapping and snarling with a baleful look if they ever had eyes. 

“ _ Spear _ to LOCCENT. Two ‘Gorths alive, disengaged. Seems like they're guarding the Breach,” Bastila reports. “I wonder what they're up to.” 

“ _ Smash  _ to LOCCENT. Suggestion:  _ Smash _ to run interference,  _ Spear  _ to deliver packages.” Venetia is on edge, voices from the Drift reaching out to her for reasons she can't fathom. It can't be this easy, can it? Malachor V years ago was brimstone and fire, debris whizzing about from machines and organics. Dead Exogorths, dead pilots, swallowed whole by nuclear explosions. 

Maybe things do change, then. Like what the propaganda posters say.  _ It gets better. _

“Sound plan,  _ Smash _ ,” Karath replies, over the sound of a Jaeger entering hyperspace in the background. “Get this done. On the double.” 

Heavier with another baradium warhead, the  _ Spear  _ inches closer to the Breach, leg thrusters burning low for now. Meanwhile, the  _ Smash  _ locks itself into position; its pilots bracing with feet shoulder-length apart, and arms held out at the ready, hands balled into fists.

The Exogorths continue circling the Breach, waiting, watching with eyeless faces. It’s when the  _ Spear  _ is within bombing range of the Breach that the Exogorths uncurl into missiles that hurtle straight for the  _ Spear. _

That’s when Atton and Venetia punch the air with their fists, and turbolasers shoot forth from the cannons now exposed on the chassis of the  _ Thunder Smash _ .

It batters the space slugs, but it doesn’t stop them. In fact, they streak through space like the very turbolasers that hammer them.

Right towards the  _ Spear. _

“ _ Smash _ , don’t think that work-”

Venetia  _ thinks _ , and Atton already catches on. “Course it’d have to take the kriffing hand cannon,” she grumbles to Atton’s laughter.

A flick, a press of a button- 

The  _ Thunder Smash  _ lurches from the discharge of twin turbolasers. It vapes half of an Exogorth like singing the ends of flimsi and eats away at the skin of another; said space slug shaking with a roar that sends shockwaves that rattle even Venetia’s teeth, deep inside the conn-pod of a Jaeger.

“Cargo away!” Revan hoots. It’s a moment’s warning before the warheads sail through the Breach … but there isn’t an explosion. Isn’t any indication that there’s contact beyond the Breach, aside the vast expanse of space.

“ _ Smash  _ to LOCCENT, do you read this?” Only radio silence on that comm channel, to Venetia’s dismay. “Repeat,  _ Smash  _ to LOCCENT, do you read?”

“ _ Spear _ to  _ Smash,  _ we lost contact with LOCCENT, too. Suspect interference from debris and grav field.”

“Time to break out the Shadow Generator? Warheads are bound to hit  _ something _ .”

Atton’s suggestion is met by affirmatives - and a warning from LOCCENT. “ _ Smash _ , worm to your three o’clock.”

They feel it before they see it. The  _ Smash _ rocks from impact; a planet’s worth of mass crashing into the chassis amidst sirens blaring in warning, Venetia’s HUD blinking orange as the damage reports flood in.

“ _ Fucking hell! _ ” Venetia yells into her mic, but Atton reacts faster.  _ Thinks _ faster, and Venetia swipes her hand outwards in tandem with Atton to bash the Exogorth in the face. Stuffs the  _ Smash _ ’s fist in its mouth, before-

“Turbolasers discharging in two, one-”

The  _ Smash  _ ricochets again from the force of discharge, in effect blasting the Exogorth’s skull wide open, all jagged edges and bloodied bits.

_ Nice job! _

Again, they instinctively turn to each other, face-splitting grin on both their faces. Again, words are irrelevant to each other, not when the Drift is silence and understanding all at once.

“ _ Spear  _ to  _ Smash _ , you doing alright? We’ve prepped the Shadow Generator, awaiting your half of activation.”

_ Let’s get this done. _

Venetia speaks for the both of them, summoning the relevant settings to her HUD. “Gladly,  _ Spear _ . Activating in three...”

At first, there is silence. Like the sucking in of air before it is released through the nostrils, an absence. 

Then, things are seen before they’re heard. 

Space debris collapsing upon themselves, crushing themselves at the core of Malachor; compressing space - and even time itself. A planet’s worth of gravity is something a rip in space cannot withstand, and that’s how the Breach is squeezed closed, inch by agonising inch. 

Malachor returns to whence it began. 


	10. Cleaning House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They aren’t soldiers - they aren’t wearing uniforms, but a mismatch of fatigues, vests, or jackets in muted black and grey. 
> 
> But both Atton and Venetia fixate on the red pauldrons and the sigil emblazoned on them, and they aim their rifles true. 
> 
> Seccers.

_ SECURITY CLEARANCE: COMMAND  _

_ ENCRYPTION: TOP-LEVEL _

_ TO: Saul Karath  _

_ FROM: Jolee Bindo  _

_ SUBJECT: They’re coming.  _

_   
_ _ I failed, Marshal. Meet you at XQ-674.  _

_ Trust NO ONE.  _

=

The hyperspace jump back is quiet -  _ the drift is silence _ \- quiet enough to ruminate. She’s used to having thoughts to herself, echoing in the cavern of her mind, but now, it’s a mirror reflecting and reflected. She cannot shield her thoughts from Atton, not when a neural bridge connects them.

That’s why he knows. He sees. He  _ feels _ the chill blanketing her bones, just by recalling what he’d seen beyond the Breach through her eyes.

Fleets, space stations, a planet. Starships as numerous as the stars in the galaxy.

An entire civilisation beyond.

=

“ _ Spear  _ to LOCCENT, acknowledge. I repeat,  _ Spear _ to LOCCENT, acknowledge.”

Even out of hyperspace with Yavin IV in visual, LOCCENT is radio silent. No visual on the  _ Fury  _ too, and that must mean closing the Breach took longer than expected.

There’s no need to hasten back to the Shatterdome, so both Jaegers remain at cruising speed in their approach - thrusters low, weapons retracted.

Despite Bastila’s best attempts, LOCCENT does not respond. 

“I got a bad feeling about this.” 

“ _ Spear  _ to  _ Smash _ , they’re probably celebrating without us. Force knows the Shatterdome is in need of a good party to unwind after one unending war.”

“Atton’s rarely wrong, Len.” Venetia surprises herself with that defense of her copilot, but she feels the gratitude through the Drift. 

A pause. “You’d know that, right? Alright. I trust you, Atton. Never hurts to be careful.”

“ _ Smash _ to  _ Spear _ . Thanks.” 

“So what did happen?” Venetia wonders aloud. LOCCENT going dark is unprecedented; never in her experience had LOCCENT ceased communications - with Jaeger crews in the field, or even with other Shatterdomes in the Outer Rim. As much as she wants to crash into her bunk the moment she disembarks from her Jaeger, there’s something about this instance that leaves a foul taste in her mouth. 

_ Atris.  _ Venetia wishes desperately that she’s safe. Squishes the temptation to open a private comm channel to her.

“I guess we have to find out upon arrival,” Bastila comms in, creeping uncertainty in her voice. “ _ Spear _ will make landfall in thirty.” 

In fact, they take less than that. However, that escapes their attention.

The Shatterdome works as usual - hangar doors opening on their approach, docking clamps reaching out to lock their Jaegers in position in their respective hangars. Just- 

“Where is everyone?” Atton says, while hunching over the  _ Smash’s  _ controls; trying and failing to raise LOCCENT over short-range comms. “It's not static or anything, so why aren't they responding if it isn't an equipment malfunction?” 

At this point, Venetia thinks staying  _ in _ their drivesuits is a brilliant idea, the way it passes as body armour comparable to those worn by Corps infantry. On the clunkier side, yes, but still decent.

She strips down, leaving her battlesuit on at least - the inner layer of a drivesuit, designed to withstand the battering Jaeger pilots inside their Jaeger. 

She has a feeling they'll need it. “Something's wrong and we're finding out what.” She slides a ladder and a level down, searching for a fingerprint lock to a locker fixed to the wall. Finding it easily, square console black and obvious, is a relief - she'd feared the techs hadn't followed through with this request of hers, nonstandard and all, since the newer models had removed weapon storage in conn-pods in line with safety regulations. But she remembers too many instances from before when she wished she had a gun when Jaegers became too cumbersome to fight with - never again.

She presses a finger to the lock and watches it pop open to reveal gleaming metal.

“ _ Spear  _ to  _ Smash,  _ rendezvous at LOCCENT?” 

“Affirmative,” Venetia answers. “Stay low and keep safe.”

“Oh yeah.” The  _ click-clack  _ of cocked rifles ring in the background. “We will.”

She doesn't return to Atton just yet. There's still some time - time enough to hail someone else on her personal comm. 

“Atris.” The line is open, tell-tale crackling and pops that reassure. “Atris, what the  _ kark’s  _ happening?”

No answer. 

Venetia grabs two standard-issue BlasTech rifles and returns above, unwilling to name the unease welling in her chest.

She finds Atton waiting for her, frown on his face. It's a frown that reveals nothing, but the Drift does - anxiety and discomfort as tangible as the sweat clinging to her exposed skin. Conn-pods are hot and stuffy once the cooling systems go offline, for  _ kark’s  _ sake. Helmets become elaborate asphyxiation devices in that scenario. 

“So, we gonna talk about what we- you saw after we vaped the Breach with a huge-ass bomb?”

“Do I look like I want to?”

“Oh, great,” Atton visibly relaxes, only to shudder. “Neither do I fucking want to.”

“One problem at a time.” She throws him a rifle - which he catches. “Ready to go?” 

_ Nope _ , she hears. But he replies with a, “Guess I am,” and they're out of the  _ Thunder Smash  _ not a moment longer with guns in hand.

Mira isn't there to greet them with a job well-done, and nor are the hangar-level crew.

The Shatterdome is, in all respects, an underground bunker; plasteel and durasteel the skeleton of the facility. Remove its inhabitants, and it becomes something sinister. 

“It's like we're walking inside a coffin,” Atton breathes to her right. They're alone in an endless corridor leading upwards to LOCCENT, and despite the elevators, winding staircases, and corridors they've passed, they've met naught a soul. Only chanced upon signs of life; of half-eaten meals and doors left ajar.

“And it'll be ours if we don't find out what in Corellia’s nine hells happened. Any chance your senses know anything more about this?” 

“Wish it did, Ven. I just don't understand how we've met absolutely  _ no one.  _ Shatterdomes need people to run - how could it be we've met not a single  _ body _ ?” 

Venetia doesn't smell blood or ozone either. Yet, there's something bizarre about the situation, the way their path forward is clear and doors they don't have to take are locked, door activators red and blinking. Their comms don't even pick up on any signals, which is just- preposterous. It's impossible to suppress ambient static and frequencies so completely. 

It feels like someone's herding them to LOCCENT, and she doesn't know what to make of it. “Maybe they're all coincidentally where we aren't.” 

She's wrong. 

The next corner they turn, they see armed humanoids standing over bodies clothed in distinctive khaki uniforms. Humanoids because of their hoods and opaque helmets and goggles and face masks over simple army fatigues. They aren’t soldiers - they aren’t wearing uniforms, but a mismatch of fatigues, vests, or jackets in muted black and grey. 

But both Atton and Venetia fixate on the red pauldrons and the sigil emblazoned on them, and they aim their rifles true. 

_ Seccers. _

Atton and Venetia react faster. 

“Not all of them,” Atton says, as they step over Seccer bodies, blaster wounds smoking. “Kind-”

“ _ Fuck _ .” 

Atton turns to Venetia, worry in his face. “Yeah?”

“Look.” Venetia nudges over a Seccer corpse with her booted toes, the soldier pale-faced in death and awfully  _ young _ ( _ she doesn’t stare longer than necessary _ ). Beneath them, lies a Defense Corps soldier in khaki fatigues... without the tell-tale wound of a blaster shot.

Atton curses. 

Venetia feels her bile rise. “They used stun bolts, Atton. We didn’t.”

She swallows her feelings and heads for the door. “It's done, anyway. Not a time to wallow. Seccers might’ve overrun the Shatterdome and that's why we have to get to LOCCENT  _ now. _ ”

Atton’s expression pinches, scrunched in the way that he has something to say, but he shakes his head and follows Venetia's lead. 

_ They could be someone's child, lover, friend, family. _

“Ready?” Venetia says, leaning against the door. Her rifle, a weight in her hands.

“Hell yeah.” 

At that, Atton bashes through the door with a booted kick planted to its centre. Venetia charges in first, her blaster rifle held up. Her fingers itch to the trigger - instead, she's stunned by what sees.

“Finally, you arrive,” Kreia says, the edges of her mouth pulled up in a wicked smile; holding a blaster to Carth’s head, finger around the trigger, like it's nothing strange to do. She stands at the podium that the Marshals command Jaeger operations from, and Venetia has a sinking feeling that this is why LOCCENT went dark those hours ago. 

She only wonders how long Carth had to deal with a blaster digging into his forehead, held down by two burly Seccers.

Neither her nor Atton lowers their rifles, not with the four armed LOCCENT guards in the room; faces she recognises, but names slipping out of grasp. All of them hold a hostage at gunpoint, other LOCCENT staff - Bao-Dur the only notable face amongst them, with Marshal Karath missing. 

Not that she's particularly bothered about the apparent schism within the ranks. She has more pressing concerns - where's Len and Bastila? “The  _ hell _ you're doing, Kreia?” 

“Sending a message.” Kreia cocks her blaster; the sound ringing loud in LOCCENT. Carth doesn't squirm in her grip, let alone protest his bounds; it’s as if he's  _ resigned _ to this. This Carth isn't someone Venetia recognises. 

“All the talk about tightening Shatterdome security after Ranger Marr’s infiltration?” Carth jerks his eyes at his captor. “She's the Seccer we missed.  _ The  _ Seccer.”

“I knew she was a backstabbing, vicious old  _ scow _ ,” Atton hisses behind Venetia.

"So what's it, Kreia?” Venetia interjects, feeling her chest harden with something she promised herself never to feel again. Never ever, not with how her trust in Atris had instead tightened like a noose around her neck, after the trial. Her words become curt, her face tensing. “What's so important that you have to hold an entire Shatterdome hostage?” 

“Not the entire Shatterdome. The undercurrents of discontent towards the Republic run deeper and further than it appears on the surface.” She nods at the LOCCENT guards, and they acknowledge with nods or tips of their hats. That isn’t what sends a chill down Ventia’s spine, however. It’s Kreia settling her sightless gaze on Venetia with her next words, piercing like vibroknives through flesh; as if Kreia’s trying to tell her something - but  _ what _ ? “Truly, it is an embarrassment that such subversion within the Shatterdome has gone undetected for this long - I could not have done this alone.” 

She'd  _ trusted _ Kreia - suspected, yes, the way she carries herself, but she'd hoped otherwise.  _ Hoped _ , as if that has been working out for her, as someone who can't be blindsided by optimism despite her best efforts. 

This had been coming the moment Mical told her about Kreia’s deep cover work, and she'd ignored the signs. 

But she lowers her rifle, at least. Gets Atton to do the same with a side-eye, and is glad when he does without question. 

_ Hope you know what you're doing, partner.  _

“This is the only way to seize the Republic's attention; a government so self-aggrandising that help is rendered only on their terms.  _ If  _ it is rendered, at all. What is the suffering of an Outer Rim planet compared to the needs of the Core?” Kreia scoffs, smile now twisting into a scowl. “And now, the Jaeger program. Another arm of a morally bankrupt system. All of you-  _ all of you _ complicit in the ongoing exploitation of worlds beyond the Core.”

“At least we're fighting Exogorths instead of harassing Republic personnel and bombing Shatterdomes.  _ Closed the Breach,  _ too,” Carth mutters, straining against his captors. “Very helpful.”

Kreia cackles, throwing her head up in sheer mirth. “Oh? It truly is priceless, hearing a Republic plant extol the virtues of the very institution that gives them significance! Loyalty and nostalgia blinds you to the evils of the Republic - did they not defund the Jaeger program because the Senate saw no benefit in supporting this cause? Yet, those politicians and the Core Worlds they represent do not bear the aftermath of Exogorth attacks - only the planets on the fringe of the Republic do. Their prosperity is built on the ashes of planets razed by war. Until they bleed, there will be no peace. And until they realise the responsibility their privilege grants them, they do not deserve the tools that ensure your safety.” 

“She's right, Carth.” Venetia steps towards Kreia with both her hands raised. Carth gapes. She places her rifle on the floor. “That's why I won't shoot her.”

Silence. 

Kreia cackles, the sound of twigs snapping under a boot. “How does it feel, Marshal, when your own ilk betray you?”

Venetia's comlink buzzes in her ear with a message. “Bastila managed to disengage the lockdown around the command level. We’ve hacked into the cam feeds, too. LOCCENT’s, especially.”  _ We saw what happened. _ “We're going in.”

“Ranger,” Carth’s eyes flash dangerously. “Your commanding officer is in danger. Are you disobeying orders in favour of personal interest?”

“I've made my feelings towards the Defense Corps and the Republic clear. You just weren't listening.” Venetia glances over at Kreia, just to gauge her reaction. She's overwhelmed by the  _ pride _ etched on the woman's weathered features - but Venetia masks it with nonchalance. “Just like the Republic and anyone else in denial.” 

Carth looks around LOCCENT; takes in the grim determination in the faces of those present. There's no way he can outgun or outmatch them - and perhaps with some degree of realisation, he wilts. “Even if the Republic doesn’t, you've got my attention. So what happens now, Ranger Kae?” 

Kreia holsters her blaster. “Leave this Shatterdome. Take with you nothing from this base. Do that, and I will allow you to walk out unscathed.”

“You’re seizing our Jaegers.” Venetia notes, drawing Kreia’s attention. “For what?”

“Who you call Seccers need to be removed. Effective as they are in furthering the cause, they are… misguided. A pitiful fraud of what I had envisioned the movement to b-” 

That's how the crew of the  _ Spear  _ arrive - with a bang. 

All four doors of LOCCENT open to a flurry of blaster bolts zinging through the air. Carth ducks, his two captors hit by the bolts. Kreia is caught off-guard. Hearing the punch of rifle bolts firing behind her like a damnable heartbeat, Atton pulling the trigger, Venetia lunges for her rifle. 

Kreia sees her first. Fishes out her blaster with the finesse of a gunslinger years younger, points it at Venetia with a snarl -  _ I had believed you smarter than this _ \- just as Venetia levels her rifle with Kreia dead centre in the iron sights. 

Kreia doesn't pull the trigger. 

Venetia shoots. 

The shot punches into her shoulder as hard as it sends Kreia staggering. Venetia doesn’t fire more, simply lowers her rifle agonisingly slow as Kreia crumples to the floor in a heap; all flesh and bone, unlike the hearsay in the ranks of indestructible Seccer commanders and iron-clad will.

“You played it too close,” Venetia grunts to Revan, who walks to her side while leaning their rifle casually against their shoulder. “A minute later and she’d have guessed I was fooling around for time. But it's good to see you in one piece.” Venetia claps Revan on the shoulder, the metal of her gloves clanging against their painted pauldron; the motif of three arrows encircled by the wings of a valkyrie.

“I’m glad it worked out, then.” Revan holds out a hand to Carth, and pulls the Marshal to his feet; the latter nodding gratefully. “Radio silence is one annoying son of a murglak - just can't risk getting discovered. So the only friends we could bring were our Jaeger techs. Everyone else got barricaded in the lockdown.”

“Plus, we couldn't pass up the chance to scan through the station feeds, see where the rest of the Shatterdome personnel were.” Bastila appears beside Revan, poised and not a pristine hair out of place from her bun; even if Venetia smells carbon scoring on her. “Also, to verify the integrity of the Shatterdome’s internal defense systems.”

Carth, wobbling on his knees, grunts his surprise. “You can do that?”

It's not often that Bastila is defiant towards her superiors, let alone openly, but this time - this time Venetia wants to chortle at Bastila’s poorly-disguised sigh. “I can do a lot of things,” Bastila says. “But Mission helped out with the slicing. Apparently, there was a security leak, and most outgoing transmissions to the Seccers originated from somewhere within the Shatterdome. Perhaps that is where we will find answers - especially on how to deactivate the lockdown.” 

“Ven!” All of them turn at the sound of footsteps approaching - it's Atton rushing over, along with a Wookiee and a blue-skinned Twi’lek in tow, eyes searching hers. She shakes her head, barely, and waves off his concern with a bemused smile. How things have changed. 

“I got her,” Venetia grins at Atton, soft, unable to manage more than that with the adrenaline finally seeping out of her system; exhaustion now piling up like  _ beskar _ plates weighing on her frame. Snorts a bit, too, at the series of events that have brought her here - Kreia, her savior, mentor, confidante, and now, her supposed enemy. 

Sometimes she just has to  _ karking, fucking giggle  _ for poodoo to make sense. Or sometimes, it's  _ giggling  _ that only makes sense; enough that Carth looks at her funny, backing away on the guise of shifting on his feet.

“Yeah, you sure got her good. She's- I don't know. Still a vicious old scow, but.” 

“Enigmatic, as always.” Revan smiles, their eyes glazing over for the slightest moment. Venetia knows that look - she's worn it before, when dwelling about the past again. 

Kreia mattered -  _ matters  _ to her, and she whispers that in her mind with an undeniable warmth in her chest.

It's the Wookiee who clamps stun cuffs on Kreia and folds her on their shoulder like she's another bundle of pipes. A Wookiee named Zaalbar, according to the nametag on their technician's coveralls.

The group watches Zaalbar and the Twi’lek go, accompanied by Bao-Dur - Carth, the lone Marshal, with four of his Jaeger pilots. Unwilling to shatter the quiet that's sprouted between them. 

And  _ kark _ , Venetia wishes they can stand around like this forever.

Bastila clears her throat. “What next?” 

_ Find Atris.  _ Venetia cocks her rifle and sighs. “We've got a Shatterdome to save.” 


	11. Divided Loyalties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All she hears is Revan’s surprised yelp before her ears ring with the zing of a blaster bolt; a zing that reverberates as the moment shudders to a standstill. The flash of green soaking the room in an eerie glow. Her heart rising to her throat. The dull thud of a drivesuit landing on the floor. Her legs jerking as she twists on her feet, turning to the sound as she flicks her gauntlet to activate the holdout blaster she’d mounted on it. 
> 
> Her eyes land on a gaze of piercing blue.

Atton decides to stay behind with Carth. Bao-Dur, herself, Revan, and Bastila set off in search of everyone else. 

The four of them carefully walk the halls, Revan taking point and Venetia holding the rear. All of them hold their blaster rifles at the ready in case Seccers spring them as they make their way to the security room. If there’s any way of lifting the lockdown and discovering where the rest of the Shatterdome personnel are, that’s where their best chance is. 

Still, the halls are eerily quiet, save the hissing of pipes and the popping of air currents. Venetia doesn’t like it. She nudges the woman in front of her. “Did you manage to hear from _Fury?_ ”

“No,” Bastila answers. “Communications are entirely-”

Revan raises their fist. Everyone stops, flattening themselves against the wall. Venetia tenses, her fingers curling around the trigger, but it’s a false alarm - no Seccers cross the corridor in the T-junction they’re all in. Revan turns to them with an apologetic smile, but Venetia waves it off with a quiet, “It’s okay.”

Fortuitously - or not - Venetia’s headset communicator vibrates, and she answers. “Ranger Olic.”

The reply crackles from the static, but the voice is thankfully familiar. “Ven! Thank the fuck. Thought the Seccers had gotten you too.” 

“Pfft. Mira, you know me - it’s a _karking insult_ if they got me.” Venetia halts, ducking into a nearby room, and the other three follow suit and cover the entrance. “Where are you? No- where’s everyone?”

“Locked inside the residential areas. Thought they were herding us in to gas us or cut off life support, so some of us tried crawling out through the vents, but nothing. It’s funny - like we weren’t important to them. Not that I’m complaining.” 

Venetia chuckles, drawing confused glances from Bastila and Revan. Bao-Dur simply shakes his head, bemused, and continues watching the door. “Think I know why. Anyway, we’re gonna get you out. Just sit tight, bar the doors, whatever’s necessary. I know you can handle yourselves. Just- have you seen Atris?”

“Atris?” Mira’s surprise is evident. “No, I haven’t. Why?”

Venetia stifles her exhale, buries her disappointment. She curls her hand tighter around the grip of her rifle. “Nothing. She might know something, but she’s nowhere to be found.”

“Right. I’ll keep you updated.” The connection ends with a click.

As Venetia turns to the rest, it’s Revan who speaks first. “So?”

“They’re okay. Some of them are with Mira in the residential zones on the mid-levels. We keep going.”

“Wait.” Bao-Dur nods to the corner, where Bastila is speaking urgently into her comms.

“Mission?” Bastila’s frown deepens the closer they approach. “Mission, please respond.”

“This doesn’t sound good,” Revan whispers. They press a hand against their ear, opening a comm channel. “Zaalbar? Z? Everything alright on your side?” 

Bastila and Revan lock gazes not a moment later. Venetia knows that look - she guesses what they say a split-second before they do.

“This is bad,” they echo simultaneously. 

“We split up,” Venetia says. It suddenly feels like her world is beginning to spiral - first Atris, now the _Spear’s_ crew going missing, and- _holy fark._ They were supposed to bring Kreia to the holding cells. “Two of us head for the holding cells on the lower levels. Another two head for the security rooms to do something about this lockdown before anything else happens.” 

“Would that be safe? We still do not know how many Seccers remain,” Bao-Dur asks, rightly so; the voice of reason. It’s something Venetia’s always admired about him; his measured tones, his contemplative silence. His words are never said lightly. 

“Ven will, ‘cause I’ll be with her.” Revan steps to stand beside Venetia; she senses their presence before she sees them, and she knows that to be true. Them and her, against the galaxy - just like old times. Revan nods at Bastila with a smile. “Bas can take care of herself, and I know you can too, Bao-Dur. If anything, we’ll just ping LOCCENT about our whereabouts and they’ll come. Hopefully before anything happens. What’s a few Seccers to Jaeger pilots and a hell of a LOCCENT officer with a repulsor fist?”

“I like how you think.” Bao-Dur chuckles, more rumble than airy laughter. “I take it that the security room is where Ranger Shan and I shall go.”

“Hell yeah.” Venetia’s already at the door, nervous energy tingling in the ends of her fingers. “Enough talk. We don’t know how much time we have.”

They split up, headed for their respective locations. While Bao-Dur and Bastila duck into a stairwell to ascend to the upper levels, Revan and Venetia continue along the corridor in search of a repulsorlift down. If Revan’s been trying to catch her attention, Venetia doesn’t notice - she’s consumed by this singular drive to _find Atris, did Kreia escape?_ _What happened to the techs of the Spear?_

_I should’ve killed Kreia when I had the chance._ _If they’re dead, their deaths are on my hands._

“Hey, I can hear you think.” Revan pokes her shoulder when they descend the levels in a repulsorlift. The power’s out, shot like everything else in lockdown, so only a measly emergency light illuminates the cramped space. It’s more force cage than a repulsorlift, and it makes Venetia want to shut her eyes. “Ven?”

“I know what you’re going to say, Len. Don’t. Just- _don’t_. Not now.” Actually, she doesn’t. She can’t read Revan’s expression, can’t hear whispers of Revan’s thoughts. Her mind is cluttered with a frackload of other things - she doesn’t want to think of anything else. It’ll only worsen the deadweight she feels in her chest. “Let’s just focus on the moment.”

Revan pats her shoulder. “I got your back. Always have.” 

Again, out of the repulsorlift and towards the holding cells, they meet no one. Absolutely _no one_. Not a single Seccer, or even Shatterdome personnel. Revan doesn’t mention that, though - their single passing glance says it all. 

They pause at the door of the holding cells. The door is closed, its surface as smooth as a rancor’s behind - no visible score marks, nothing. Whatever they find, whoever did this… it’s a clean job. 

_An inside job._ Venetia dashes the thought the moment it surfaces. Ridiculous. _Impossible_ _._ They caught the leak. Who else could it be?

Revan takes position by the doorframe, Venetia poised to smash the door’s control panel with the butt of her rifle. One, _two-_ and they execute a perfect door breach. Venetia smashes the panel, the door slides open with a hiss. Rifle out, Venetia storms in - _to an empty room_?

She gasps. The Twi’lek and the Wookie - Mission and Zaalbar - lie face-down on the floor in the middle of the room. Ignoring all else, she rushes over to them, gauntlet off to check for a pulse. Relief floods her - _kark_ , _what a scare_ \- when she feels a faint beat under her fingers. 

Not scoping the room - that’s her first mistake. 

Her second is to toss her rifle aside. 

All she hears is Revan’s surprised yelp before her ears ring with the zing of a blaster bolt; a zing that reverberates as the moment shudders to a standstill. The flash of green soaking the room in an eerie glow. Her heart rising to her throat. The dull thud of a drivesuit landing on the floor. Her legs jerking as she twists on her feet, turning to the sound as she flicks her gauntlet to activate the holdout blaster she’d mounted on it. 

Her eyes land on a gaze of piercing blue.

“No,” Venetia whimpers. She can’t move; her arm still pointed and ready to shoot. Because if she keeps her body locked this way, at least something about her isn’t crumbling like rotted deadwood. “ _No._ ”

“You weren’t supposed to see this.” Atris holds her blaster outstretched, the barrel still smoking. Her words, soft. Unnaturally soft. It’s an apology, in all but the words that constitute it. “You were supposed to head for the security room with the rest of them.” 

“ _Shut_ the _karking hell_ up. _Kriffing_ shut _up_.” 

Atris winces at every word, but she does not lower her blaster. Briefly, she closes her eyes - Venetia refuses to believe it’s sorrow. “I did not kill them. I used stun bolts.”

Again, dancing around what’s really happening. Again, pretending as if betrayal is just another thing friends- _lovers_ inflict on one another. It makes Venetia’s blood boil, her hands curled into fists of _beskar_. It’s the War, all over again. 

Atris is silent to her seething fury. Only watches her, watches the tension in the hard angles of Venetia’s shoulder, elbows, jaw. Atris’s face, an impossibly blank slate - _how can she feel nothing?_

Then, a blaster bolt to Venetia's heart. _Atris does_. _Even if she does not say it._ Venetia knows that, _keenly_ knows that, because they've done this before. And Venetia realises, past the anger, past the hurt, that she’s exhausted. That’s enough for her shoulders to slump, and her arms to flop uselessly to her side. Her jaw unclenches and she barely musters the voice to ask, “Why?” 

“You know why. You know what the Corps does to traitors. And you know why I cannot let them inflict that to her… and me.”

“It was you.” It makes sense. It makes perfect, _kriffing_ sense, and Venetia curses how she’s pieced the details together. “All along, the leak the Corps failed to detect.” 

“I stopped divulging Republic secrets to the Seccers when I realised how extreme they became, but the damage was done. All I wanted was to undermine the Republic, to reveal its hypocrisy - like you, years ago, when they made an example of you.”

 _I did this for you. Because of you._ A twisted, sick chorale of voices in Venetia’s mind, but Atris’s lips do not move _. What I should’ve done, years ago._

Inwardly, Venetia is screaming. _This is no salvation, Atris,_ she wants to say. _It’s not salvation when cold-blooded murderers are involved._

Outwardly, she stands numb, lips clamped shut; trembling with unnamable emotion. Her eyes fixate on the clothes on Atris’ back - not a uniform, but fatigues and vests in muted black and grey. 

“I will not allow the Corps to execute someone who possesses the means to reform the Seccers, or dismantle it once and for all. And that is why I must leave.” Atris nods to her right, somewhere behind Venetia. “Together with her.”

“Atris,” Venetia says, _begs_ , finally gathering the courage to speak _._ She inches closer with jerky steps, even with the barrel of a blaster staring at her. “Atris, don't. Don't go somewhere I can't follow. Please. I can't-" _I just got you back, and you're leaving me again._ Defeated, Venetia sags, an arm’s reach of Atris, unable to meet her gaze. _Stay. We can work through this._ Her voice barely rises above the thudding in her ears. "Please." 

It doesn't matter that Atris is responsible for the death of innocents. For the suffering of child soldiers, war orphans- _Visas’s scars, crisscrossing the bumps and juts of her back_ \- 

She can imagine it now, the court-martial. Vivid in her mind, it’ll play out exactly as how it did for her - the tribunal, the deliberation… the decision. 

The blaster bolts that will singe through the air before thudding squarely into white overalls. 

Venetia inhales deeply, wiping her cheek with the back of her palm. It comes away clean. All she can smell now, is snow.

"Ven, I am truly sorry. I wish there was another way." Atris closes the distance between them, lowering her blaster. She crosses into Venetia’s space, her presence _over_ , _clear_ , _here._ The hint of mint, soothing as Venetia inhales; just a bit, caught between fleeing and wanting to collapse into familiar arms. “These are the consequences I must contend with. I will not allow you to be dragged down with me because of my folly. But- thank you.”

In truth, Venetia isn't hearing anything. Atris’s words float over, but leaves her be. Only her body moves, as if tugged by an invisible string, closer to Atris. She can make out the familiar point of her chin, the crease between her eyebrows out of tension. A face that has remained crystal-clear in her mind, even now. 

Atris raises a hand to her cheek, hesitates- 

_Bang._

Atris crumples, the flash of viridian framing her face. 

Venetia catches Atris in her arms, horror crawling up her throat. “ _No!_ ” 

She didn't kill Atris. She didn't kill Atris. She _couldn't_ have. She didn't point her wrist at her. So who did? 

Venetia drags her gaze upwards from Atris’s slumped form - _no no no no!_ \- looking past the darkened floors, then the threshold of the room, to a pair of too-shiny boots. Boots belonging to Admiral Karath, currently hunched; dress uniform and hair rumpled from a struggle but otherwise unbloodied. A blaster barrel pointed blank at her, smoke still wafting from the end. 

His eyes glint like flint on durasteel. “I've heard enough.”

Karath limps over, holstering his blaster, before hoisting Atris around his shoulders. Wordlessly, Venetia helps. Helps him place both comatose forms of Atris and Kreia in separate holding cells, before slapping Mission and Zaalbar awake. Or tried to, at least. In the end, they're sent to the medbay on repulsorlift beds by a pair of Corps medics who've escaped the lockdown. 

“She was the leak alongside Ranger Kae, wasn't she?” At Venetia's numb nod, Karath grunts. “I knew it. I had my suspicions for months, but not evidence that Ranger Jolee didn’t already possess. Someone ambushed me as I exited LOCCENT, and I'm willing to bet it was her.” 

_Who else could it be?_ At this point, Venetia can't do much but go along, the way her brain is mushed-up like durasteel wool. Not once has she stopped looking at the unconscious forms inside the holding cells; she can’t look away. “What will happen to them?”

“Whatever that happens to traitors.” Karath’s lips pull into a grimace. “A court-martial. Whatever happens after… we shall see.” His comlink beeps, and he answers - _Jolee? Yes, leak plugged_ \- already losing interest in Venetia. 

Only later, when Venetia sits in the mess hall with a mug of caf, does she realise how Marshal Karath had kept his silence on this: she had all the time in the world to shoot Atris - but _didn't._

She takes hours to finish her caf, stewing in her silence. 

=

The congratulations come later. In between debriefs and Shatterdome meetings, Corps officers approach her with words of thanks for a job well-done. Scuttlebutt explodes with rumours of her putting down the Shatterdome leak within their ranks, but she doesn't respond to any who ask. Her chest twinges whenever they do. 

There's only one place in the Shatterdome that shields her from public glare, and that's where she sequesters herself in the days leading up to the trial. The _trial_. Marshals from Coruscant will arrive in weeks to deliberate, internal investigations are ongoing, and Venetia has to consciously breathe to remember that _it isn't her._ She's not who they're investigating. She's not who they're about to sentence. 

_By the order of the Council, you are hereby excommunicated from the Corps. Surrender your wings and never return._

But the feelings of helplessness remain, all the same. 

“Brianna,” Venetia notes, sensing her approach even over the din of fists pounding into a punchbag. Sweat drips down Venetia’s temples and she swipes them away with her arm. _Thwack, thwack, thwack._ It's a steady rhythm. Predictable. Comforting. “Aren't you supposed to be partying like the rest of the Corps? 

“I dislike parties. They are unnecessarily loud and involve more conversation than I am comfortable with.” Soon after, another pair of punches joins in, but on the punching bag adjacent to Venetia. “How are you?”

“I don't _know._ ” At this point, only punching things makes sense. Turning her energies inward and bettering herself, the way the shrinks told her to. “Breach is closed, thank the _kriffing_ stars, but Atris and Kreia are certainly about to die. How the fuck am I supposed to feel?” 

Brianna stops punching immediately. “Spar with me.” 

“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“And what is wrong with that?” 

Brianna’s right. Venetia pours in all her angst in her last punch against the bag, hard enough for it to rock its stand. She steps back, ragged breaths and hot flashes as she comes down from the high of mindless punching. Wiping her forehead, she answers, “You'd be patronising me, then. But I now know better.” She turns to Brianna, grinning as she settles into a defensive stance. “Bring it on.”

Brianna blinks. Releases a punch lightning fast that Ven barely dodges. That sets the tone of their sparring in a reversal of roles: Brianna on the offensive, Ven soaking and deflecting jabs as they come. Funny, how Brianna still wears her Corps fatigues, instead of stripping to her underclothes - Venetia wonders how long she means to stay.

“You are troubled, Venetia.” A punch straight to Ven’s face - but she palms it away effortlessly. “It is clear to me and all who know you, if they are not inebriated. You are unsure of yourself, and perhaps what lengths you are willing to go for those who matter to you.”

Her words snag on something inside her, snag on something prickly and raw. Venetia lunges for Brianna’s jaw, knuckles out. “Shouldn't I? I don't want to _lose the ones I love again!_ ”

Before Venetia realises, there's a thump. A groan. Her arms rigidly en garde, unmoving. 

Then, her gaze falls on the Echani curled on the floor. Immediately, she rushes to help her up. “Brianna. I'm sorry- I lost control.” 

“You are hurting, Ven.” Instead of anger, or- _kark_ , anything related to censure, there's only worry in Brianna’s furrowed expression. Venetia helps her stand, regardless, as the Echani grips her wrists tightly. “I have never seen your stance like this. I will listen, if you wish to speak.”

Brianna's right. She _is_ hurting. 

“I don't think you would, once you know what I'm about to do. And I wouldn't tell you if I could, because I don't want you to choose between your oaths and your affection for me. It’s a _farkled_ choice that I don’t want to wish on anyone.”

Brianna steps back. Pauses to let the meaning of those words sink in. “Venetia…” 

“Have I told you about how I returned to the PGDC?” 

“Marshal Onasi came to you in the PGDC’s greatest hour of need,” Brianna says, tentative. She searches Venetia’s expression for clues on the shift in conversation. “There were Exogorths to slay, but a lack of pilots for the Jaegers built to fell them.”

Nodding, Venetia steps close to Brianna and holds her by the shoulders. Grips them firm, as if that helps impress the conviction moving her words. “I returned to the PGDC because of a request, but now I leave on my own terms. Whatever happens, it's not your fault.” Ven smiles, as comfortingly as she can. “I won’t allow anyone else to be dragged along with me, wherever I’m going.”

“Speak plainly, Venetia. Please.”

“I always have, Brianna. But this time...” Ven pats Brianna’s shoulder, looking away. “You have to trust me.”

“Venetia. _Ven!_ ”

Brianna is too late. By the time she shakes off the ghost of a touch on her shoulder, Venetia’s gone. Walked out of the training room, and out of sight in the corridor beyond. 

=

She was already here in the holding cells when Corps military police brought her in, but it was hours later before they spoke. Perhaps it was the separate holding cells they were imprisoned in. Perhaps it was the time needed to fully appreciate the magnitude of what they’ve done, and what will be done to them. 

Her shackles are heavy in her hands; shackles _she_ designed for the Corps.

Nonetheless, it’s Atris who stands at the forcefield door of her cell first, only to find Kreia watching her intently from where she sits in her cell. 

Atris stares back into unreadable, lidless eyes. Her words, heavy on her heart. “I did as you asked, years ago and until now. Was it worth it?”

_Was she worthy of forgiveness anymore?_

“Unlike you, Ranger Atris, I do not regret. I see what must be done, and I seize it. I do not wait, I do not flounder. Neither do I let my attachments cloud my judgement, nor motivate my actions.”

Atris bristles at the jab. _Venetia is not a mistake._ “The Corps will execute us for treason, Kreia. Our Corps comrades will never look at us and not see betrayal. This is the end for us, and anyone else associated with us. You risked all for the sake of your personal vendetta against the Corps. Surely you realise that?” 

“ _Personal vendetta_.” Kreia's laugh is raspy; nails on chalkboard. “I did not force you to follow me, Atris. You did so out of your own will. _Enthusiastically._ ”

“But matters are far from resolved,” Kreia continues, settling back into her cross-legged position on the floor. “You have always been a person of extremes - hasty at times, obstinate otherwise.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Kreia smiles. “Watch the door, Atris.” 

=

 _ENCRYPTED TRANSMISSION //_ _CLEARANCE R3-769_

_TO: Lennox “Revan” Quinn_

_FROM: Venetia Olic_

_SUBJECT: a question_

_len,_

_you heard what ranger kae said. who she was, and what she wanted to do. and i know you both used to be tight. she's a karking good mentor, and a better fighter. and maybe, maybe i love her like how you do._

_i know you. you're gonna kriffing spring her from the cells, aren't you?_

_ven_

_ENCRYPTED TRANSMISSION //_ _CLEARANCE R3-965_

_TO: Lennox “Revan” Quinn_

_FROM: Venetia Olic_

_SUBJECT: RE: a question_

_Ven,_

_I know you care for her, too. We once shared minds, and for the better. Maybe we still do, somewhat, the way we read each other with a passing glance._

_You're not asking if I'm going to defect. You're asking if there's a place for you in it, whatever it is._

_As always, the answer is yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all folks! i finally published this 3 years since i first conceived this crossover.
> 
> that said, there are some relationships/dynamics and character roles that i know don't quite fit... but i didn't know where else to put them. hope they're not horribly OOC - jolee is one, because if the Corps is the stand-in for the Jedi Order, why would he rejoin it? And if he did, for what reasons? honestly hoped i could justify such character choices/decisions through the narrative. if not, would love to know what y'all thought. 
> 
> anyways, thanks for sticking around and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i wrote it.


End file.
